UC-NRLF 


B    3    S7T    OTT 


A   T   T   I   L   A. 


A  ROMANCE. 


BY    THE    AUTHOR    OF 


"THE  GIPSY,"  "ONE  IN  A  THOUSAND,"  &c.,  &c. 

M 

IN     TWO     VO  L  U  M  E  S. 

VOL.  I. 


NEW-YORK: 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  82  CLIFF-STREET. 

18  37. 


TO 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR,  ESQ., 
THIS    BOOK, 

AS    A    FEEBLE    TESTIMONY    OF    STRONG    PERSONAL    REGARD 
AND    SINCERE    ADMIRATION, 

IS    DEDICATED,    BY    HIS    FRIEND, 

G.  P.  R.  JAMES. 


93^e> 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


In  giving  this  book  to  the  pubhc  I  have  but 
little  to  explain.  The  reader  who  takes  it  up  may 
expect  to  find  something  respecting  the  Princess 
Honoria.  He  will,  however,  find  nothing.  All 
that  we  know  of  her  history  is  uninteresting,  ex- 
cept to  those  who  love  to  dwell  upon  the  prurien- 
cies of  a  degraded  state  of  society  :  all  that  we 
know  of  her  character  is  disgusting  to  such  as  love 
purity  and  dignity  of  mind.  It  would  be  tedious 
to  the  reader  to  explain  why  the  author  has  thought 
fit  to  alter  several  names  of  the  persons  acting 
prominent  parts  in  the  story  of  Attila.  In  so  doing 
he  has  consulted  principally  his  own  ear  ;  and  in 
a  few  other  deviations  which  he  has  made  from  the 
course  of  that  great. monarch's  history,  he  has  con- 
sulted his  own  convenience.  In  regard,  however, 
to  the  change  which  he  has  represented  as  taking 
place  in  the  demeanour  of  iVttila,  his  abandonment 
of  the  simple  habits  which  at  first  distinguished 
him,  and  his  dereliction  from  the  calm  equanimity 
which  he  displayed  in  his  early  intercourse  with 
the  Romans,  the  author  beheves  that  he  is  justified 


Vlll  ADVERTISEMENT. 

by  the  records  of  history  as  well  as  the  course  of 
nature.  He  is  inclined  to  think,  also,  that  if,  in 
regard  to  the  facts  of  Attila's  death,  we  could  dis- 
play the  chameleon  truth,  in  the  broad  light  of  day, 
without  any  of  the  shades  and  hues  with  which 
time  and  circumstances  have  surrounded  her,  we 
should  find  her  colour  such  as  he  has  represented 
it ;  but  this,  of  course,  must  ever  remain  in  doubt. 


A  T  T  I  L  A. 


CHAPTER  I. 

A  LANDSCAPE   IN  DALMATIA. 

Music  was  in  the  air,  and  loveliness  was  spread  out 
over  the  earth  as  a  mantle. 

There  was  a  voice  of  many  waters — the  bland  musi- 
cal tone  of  mountain  streams  singing  as  they  wend  their 
way  over  the  smooth  round  pebbles  of  their  hilly  bed 
towards  the  sea.  And  the  song  of  life,  too,  was  heard 
from  every  field,  and  every  glade,  and  every  valley;  the 
trilling  of  innumerable  birds,  the  hum  of  insect  myriads, 
the  lowing  of  distant  cattle,  winding  down  from  the  up- 
lands to  pen  or  fold,  the  plaintive,  subdued  bleating  of 
the  patient  sheep,  the  merry  voice  of  the  light-hearted 
herd  as  he  led  home  his  flock  from  the  hills,  after  a  long 
warm  southern  day  in  the  maturity  of  spring.  Manifold 
sweet  sounds — all  blended  into  one  happy  harmony, 
softened  by  distance,  rendered  more  melodious  to  the 
heart  by  associations  felt  but  not  defined,  and  made 
more  touching  by  the  soft  evening  hour — filled  the  whole 
air,  and  spread  a  calm,  bright,  contemplative  charm  over 
the  listening  senses. 

The  eye,  too,  could  find  the  same  delight  as  the  ear, 
equal  in  depth,  similar  in  character ;  for  though  sweet 
April  had  sunk  in  the  warm  arms  of  May,  still,  even  in 
that  land  of  the  bright  south,  the  reign  of  summer  had 
not  yet  begun :  not  a  leaf,  not  a  flower,  not  a  blade  of 
grass  had  lost  a  hue  under  the  beams  of  the  sun,  and 
many  a  balmy  and  refreshing  shower,  during  a  long  and 
humid  spring,  had  nourished  the  verdure  and  enlivened 
the  bloom. 

From  the  high  round  knoll  upon  the  left,  crowned 
with  the  five  tall  cypresses  which  perhaps  flourished 


10  ATTILA. 

as  seedlings  on  that  spot  in  the  young  and  palmy  days 
of  Greece,  might  be  seen  that  unrivalled  view  which  has 
never  yet  found  eye  to  gaze  on  it  uncharmed — that 
view  which,  of  all  prospects  in  the  world,  has  greatest 
power,  when  suddenly  beheld,  to  make  the  heart  beat 
fast,  and  the  breath  come  thick  with  mingled  feelings  of 
wonder  and  delight.  On  one  side,  at  about  a  mile's 
distance,  where  the  ground  sloped  gently  down  towards 
the  sea,  rose  the  palace  of  Diocletian,  vast  and  exten- 
sive, massy  without  being  heavy,  and  equally  sublime 
from  its  beauty  and  its  dimensions.  Clear,  uppn  the 
bright  back-ground  of  the  evening  sky,  cut  the  graceful 
lines  of  the  architecture  ;  and,  though  a  sudden  break 
in  the  outline  of  the  frieze,  witl\  the  massy  form  of  a 
fallen  capital  rolled  forward  before  the  steps  of  the  mag- 
nificent portico  which  fronted  the  sea,  told  that  the  busy, 
unceasing,  unsparing  hand  of  man's  great  enemy  had 
already  laid  upon  that  splendid  building  the  crumbling 
touch  of  ruin ;  yet,  as,  it  then  stood,  with  the  setting  sun 
behind  it,  and  the  deep  blue  shadows  of  the  evening  in- 
volving all  the  minute  parts  of  the  side  that  met  the  eye, 
the  effects  of  decay  even  added  to  the  beauty  of  the 
object,  by  making  the  straight  lines  of  the  architecture 
at  once  contrast  and  harmonize  with  the  graceful  irreg- 
ularities of  nature  whereby  it  was  surrounded.  Several 
groups  of  old  and  stately  trees,  too,  still  more  diversified 
the  prospect  on  that  side ;  and  through  the  pillars  of  the 
portico  might  be  caught  the  glistening  line  of  the  bright 
sea  where  it  met  and  mingled  with  the  sky. 

Behind,  and  to  the  right  hand,  stretching  far  away  to 
the  north,  rose  mountain  upon  mountain,  in  all  the  fan- 
ciful forms  and  positions  into  which  those  earth-born 
giants  cast  themselves  in  Greece,  and  over  them  all 
was  thrown  that  lustrous  purple  which  in  those  lands 
well  deserves  the  name  of  the  "  magic  light  of  even- 
ing." 

Between  the  knoll  of  cypresses,  however,  and  those 
far  hills  robed  in  their  golden  splendour,  lay  a  wide  tract 
of  country,  gently  sloping  upward  in  a  thousand  sweep- 
ing lines,  with  here  and  there  an  abrupt  rock  or  insu- 
lated mound  suddenly  towering  above  the  rest,  while 
scattered  clumps  of  tall  old  trees,  rich  rounded  masses 
of  forest,  villas,  farms,  vineyards,  and  olive  grounds, 
filled  up  the  intervening  space ;  and  had  all  been  as  it 
seemed— had  all  those  farms  been  tenanted,  had  none 


ATTILA.  11 

of  those  villas  been  in  ruins — would  have  presented  a 
scene  of  prosperity  such  as  the  world  has  never  known 
but  once. 

Still  decay  had  made  no  very  great  progress  ;  still  the 
land  was  richly  cultivated ;  still  the  population,  though 
not  dense,  was  sufficient;  and  as  the  eye  ran  along  the 
innumerable  little  promontories  and  headlands  of  the 
bay,  might  be  seen,  rising  up  above  some  slight  irregu- 
larities of  the  ground,  a  part  of  the  buildings  of  the  small 
but  prosperous  town  of  Salona.  Close  by  the  side  of 
that  knoll  of  cypresses,  breaking  impetuously  from  a 
bank  above,  dashed  on  the  bright  and  sparkling  Hyader ; 
now  fretting  and  foaming  with  the  large  rocks  amid 
which  a  part  of  its  course  was  bound ;  now  prattling 
playfully  with  the  motley  pebbles  which  in  other  parts 
strewed  its  bed;  now  dashing  like  a  fierce  steed  all  in 
foam  where  it  leaped  over  the  crag  into  the  sunshine ; 
and  then,  where  its  clear  blue  waters  spread  out  unin- 
terrupted under  the  cool  shadow  of  a  hill,  seeming — like 
time  to  a  young  and  happy  heart — to  stand  still  in  calm 
and  peaceful  enjoyment,  even  while  it  was  flowing  away 
as  quickly  as  ever. 

The  eye  that  followed  the  Hyader  down  its  course 
• — and  there  was  an  eye  that  did  so — rested  on  the  bright 
and  glowing  west,  and  on  the  fairest,  the  most  entran- 
cing object  of  all  that  magic  scene  ;  for  there,  stretched 
out  beneath  the  setting  sun,  lay  the  gleaming  waters  of 
the  Adriatic,  studded  all  along  its  shores  with  a  thou- 
sand purple  islands  which  rose  out  of  that  golden  sea 
like  gems. 

The  air  was  calm  and  tranquil ;  the  sky,  the  unrivalled 
deep  blue  sky,  which  hangs  over  that  most  lovely  sea, 
was  without  a  cloud,  varying  with  one  soft  and  equa- 
ble declension  from  the  intense  purple  zenith  to  the 
warm  rosy  hues  that  glowed  in  the  far  west.  The  sea, 
also,  was  smooth  and  peaceful,  and  would  have  seemed 
imbroken  by  a  wave,  had  not  here  and  there  a  sudden 
bending  line  of  light  darted  over  the  bosom  of  the 
waters,  and  told  that  they  were  moved  in  the  evening 
light  by  the  breath  of  the  breeze. 

Thus  appeared  the  whole  scene,  when,  from  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  bay,  a  white  sail  was  seen  to  glide 
forward,  as  if  coming  from  Salona  towards  the  palace 
of  Diocletian,  or  the  little  village  of  Aspalathus.  Slowly 
and  peacefully  it  moved  along,  giving  one  more  image 


12  ATTILA. 

of  calm  and  tranquil  enjoyment ;  and  while  it  steered 
upon  its  way,  four  sweet  voices,  sometimes  joined  in 
chorus  by  several  deeper  tones,  broke  forth  from  the 
mound  of  cypresses,  singing : — 

A  HYMN  TO  THE  SETTING  SUN. 

I. 

"  Slow,  slow,  mighty  wanderer,  sink  to  thy  rest, 
Thy  course  of  beneficence  done  ; 
As  glorious  go  down  to  thy  Thetis'  warm  breast 
As  when  thy  bright  race  was  begun. 
For  all  thou  hast  done 
'  Since  thy  rising,  oh  sun  ! 

May  thou  and  thy  Maker  be  bless'd  ! 

Thou  hast  scatter'd  the  night  from  thy  broad  golden  way, 
Thou  hast  given  us  thy  light  through  a  long  happy  day, 
Thou  hast  roused  up  the  birds,  thou  hast  waken'd  the  flowers. 
To  chant  on  thy  path,  and  to  perfume  the  hours — 
Then  slow,  mighty  wanderer,  sink  to  thy  rest, 
And  rise  again  beautiful,  blessing,  and  bless'd  ! 

U. 

*'  Slow,  slow,  mighty  wanderer,  sink  to  thy  rest, 
Yet  pause  but  a  moment  to  shed 
One  warm  look  of  love  on  the  earth's  dewy  breast. 
Ere  the  starr'd  curtain  fall  round  thy  bed, 
And  to  promise  the  time. 
When,  awaking  sublime. 
Thou  shalt  rush  all  refresh'd  from  thy  rest. 

Warm  hopes  drop  like  dews  from  thy  life-giving  hand, 
Teaching  hearts  closed  in  darkness  like  flowers  to  expand  ; 
Dreams  wake  into  joys  when  first  tonch'd  by  thy  light, 
As  glow  the  dim  waves  of  the  sea  at  thy  sight — 
Then  slow,  mighty  wanderer,  sink  to  thy  rest, 
And  rise  again  beautiful,  blessing,  and  bless'd ! 

in. 

*  "  Slow,  slow,  mighty  wanderer,  sink  to  thy  rest. 

Prolonging  the  sweet  evening  hour; 
Then  robe  again  soon  in  the  morn's  golden  vest, 
To  go  forth  in  thy  beauty  and  power. 
Yet  pause  on  thy  way, 
To  the  full  height  of  day. 
For  thy  rising  and  setting  are  bless'd ! 

When  thou  com'st  after  darkness  to  gladden  our  eyes. 
Or  departest  in  glory,  in  glory  to  rise. 


ATTILA.  1 3 

May  hope  and  may  prayer  still  be  woke  by  thy  rays, 
And  thy  going  be  mark'd  by  thanksgiving  and  praise  !* 
Then  slow,  mighty  wanderer,  smk  to  thy  rest, 
And  rise  again  beautiful,  blessing,  and  bless'd  !" 


CHAPTER  IL 

THE  ACTORS  IN  THE  SCENE. 

The  voices  that  sung  were  sweet,  thrillingly  sweet, 
and  the  music  to  which  the  verse  was  wedded  of  that 
dreamy,  wandering  kind  which  approaches  more  nearly 
to  the  tones  of  an  -^Eolian  harp  than  to  any  regular 
composition.  It  was,  indeed,  full  of  a  wild  and  deli- 
cious melody,  which  was  sometimes  solemn  and  sublime, 
sometimes  low  and  plaintive,  and  the  same  general 
theme  might  be  heard  running  through  the  whole  ;  but 
often  the  air  wandered  wide,  like  a  bird  upon  the  Aving, 
and  caught  a  note  or  two  of  a  gladder  or  more  joyous 
character,  which  brightened  the  general  solemnity  of 
the  strain,  like  hope  breaking  in  upon  a  life  of  grief. 
Music  had  not  then  reached  that  perfection  which  it  has 
since  attained ;  butthere  was  a  touching  beauty  in  its 
fresh  simplicity  which  is  now  but  seldom  found.  It 
possessed  the  free  unfettered  charms  of  a  graceful  na- 
ture, cultivated,  but  not  stiffened,  by  art,  and  it  still 
went  hand  in  hand  with  the  sister  spirit  of  poetry,  in 
the  land  where  both  had  birth. 

But  the  hymn  which  had  just  floated  on  the  air  de- 
rived peculiar  sweetness  from  the  fine  harmony  of  the 
voices  which  sung  it.  It  seemed  the  varied  tones  of 
one  family,  where  each  knew  every  note  in  the  voice 
of  the  other,  and  modulated  his  own  to  suit  it,  with  that 
spirit  of  love  in  the  breasts  of  all,  whereof  the  sweetest 
harmony  that  art  can  compose  is  but  the  musical  image. 

*  It  may  not,  perhaps,  be  unnecessary  to  remind  the  reader  that 
Christianity,  though  estabhshed  in  both  the  eastern  and  western 
empires,  was  still  far  from  universal ;  and  even  in  the  minds  of  its 
most  enthusiastic  votaries  was  strangely  mingled  with  the  pictu- 
resque superstitions  of  a  former  creed ;  so  that  the  same  man  was 
often  a  Christian  in  belief,  who  was  pagan  in  many  of  his  habits  and 
almost  all  his  famihar  expressions. 
Vol.  I.— B 


14  ATTILA. 

In  the  chorus,  however,  there  joined  less  cultivated 
singers ;  but,  nevertheless,  the  voices  were  generally 
fine,  and  there  was  an  enthusiastic  eagerness  on  the 
tongues  that  repeated — 

*'  Then  slow,  mighty  wanderer,  snik  to  ihy  rest, 
And  rise  again  beautilul,  blessing,  and  bless'd !" 

which  spoke  of  that  happiness  under  the  bright  sun 
that  was  then  sinking  slowly  to  the  breast  of  ocean, 
which  is  the  poetry  and  melody  of  life. 

Under  the  five  tall  cypresses,  and  partly  reclining  on 
the  bank  that  sloped  to  the  bright  Hyader,  sat  the  group 
from  which  those  sounds  proceeded.  It  was  separated, 
indeed,  into  two  distinct  parts  ;  for — Avith  a  very  short 
space  of  green  turf  between  them  and  those  they  served 
— lay  stretched  out  in  various  attitudes,  some  raising 
the  head  upon  the  hand,  some  reclining  the  chest  upon 
the  folded  arms,  some  supported  on  the  elbow,  eight  or 
nine  slaves  of  both  sexes. 

There  was  nothing,  however,  in  the  countenances 
of  any  there  which  spoke  of  the  bitterness  of  slavery^ 
There  w^ere  no  signs  in  their  faces  or  their  demeanour 
of  the  iron  entering  into  their  soul ;  and  though,  perhaps, 
no  portion  of  human  nature  is  originally  so  debased,  and 
no  condition  of  bondage  can  be  rendered  so  gentle,  that 
the  chain  will  not  gall  and  the  load  will  not  oppress, 
yet  the  lot  was  then  common,  and  the  accursed  name 
of  slave  comprehended  nearly,  if  not  fully,  one  half  of 
the  earth's  denizens.  In  the  faces  of  those  who  lay 
stretched  easily  but  not  intrusively  beside  those  to 
whom  they  were  bound  by  that  inhuman  tie,  there 
might  be  traced  a  line  of  care— perhaps  a  shade,  it 
might  be,  of  melancholy — gathered  by  long-preserved 
and  fruitless  remembrances  of  scenes,  and  objects,  and 
persons  far  away ;  and  on  none,  but  the  countenance 
of  one  white-teethed  Nubian  girl,  and  a  young  glad  boy, 
whose  life  was  in  the  present  hour,  and  to  whose  mind 
the  past  and  the  future  were  but  a  vapoury  cloud,  was 
seen  the  light  and  laughing  merriment  of  a  heart  which 
has  known  no  sorrows  in  the  past.  With  all  the  rest, 
contentment  with  their  lot  seemed  chastened  by  griefs 
experienced  and  gone  by.  They  could  smile,  they 
could  sing  when  occasion  called  for  mirth.  Their 
minds  were  not  irresponsive  to  sights  or  sounds  of  joy ; 
but  with  them  it  was  from  the  well,  not  the  fountain, 


ATTILA.  15 

that  the  sweet  waters  of  enjoyment  sprung :  they  spar- 
kled not  up  spontaneously,  but  required  to  be  drawn  forth 
by  the  hand  of  another. 

Yet  if  one,  remembering  their  bondage,  turned  to 
gaze  upon  the  group  near  which  they  sat,  the  condition 
of  their  feelings  was  easily  understood ;  for  the  forms 
and  faces  that  were  there — not  in  the  outward  linea- 
ments alone,  but  in  the  beaming  forth  of  the  divine 
spirit,  as  much  expressed  in  the  air  and  movements  of 
the  whole  body  as  in  the  heart's  interpreter,  the  face — 
told  that  the  taskmasters  were  of  that  kindly  nobility 
of  soul  which,  in  after  years,  won  for  a  whole  class 
(that  did  not  always  merit  the  distinction)  that  most 
expressive  name  of  gentle. 

Under  the  cypresses,  not  exactly  where  the  shade 
fell — for  the  sun,  near  the  horizon,  had  lost  his  meridian 
heat,  and  the  western  breeze  swept  over  the  cool  bright 
waters  of  the  Adriatic — were  seated  three  women  and 
a  boy  of  some  fourteen  years  of  age.  They  were  evi- 
dently of  the  highest  race  of  the  land  in  which  they 
lived ;  and  had  nothing  else  bespoken  their  rank,  the 
broad  deep  border  of  purple,  of  triple  die,  which  edged 
the  snowy  robe  of  the  eldest  of  the  party,  would  have 
distinguished  her  as  a  Roman  lady  of  patrician  blood. 
She  was  scarcely  beyond  the  middle  age ;  and  time  had 
treated  her  beauty  leniently.  Somewhat  of  the  elastic 
grace,  and  all  the  slight  pliant  outline  of  early  youth, 
was  gone,  but  in  contour  and  dignity  much,  too,  had 
been  gained ;  and  the  eye,  more  calm  and  fixed,  was  as 
bright  and  lustrous,  the  teeth  as  white  and  perfect,  as 
ever.  The  hair,  drawn  up  and  knotted  on  the  crown 
of  the  head,  was  still  full  and  luxuriant ;  but,  meander- 
ing through  its  dark  and  wavy  masses,  might  here  and 
there  be  seen  a  line  of  silver  gray ;  while  the  cheek, 
which  had  once  been  as  warm  and  glowing  as  the  morn- 
ing dawn  of  her  own  radiant  land,  sorrows  calmly  borne, 
but  not  the  less  deeply  felt,  had  rendered  as  pale  as  the 
twilight  of  the  evening  just  ere  night  reigns  supreme. 

Her  dress  was  plain  and  unadorned,  of  the  finest  ma- 
terials and  the  purest  hues ;  but  the  gems  and  orna- 
ments then  so  common  were  altogether  absent.  The 
consciousness  of  beauty,  which  she  might  once  have 
felt,  was  now  altogether  forgotten ;  its  vanity  she  had 
never  known.  As  much  grace  as  health,  perfect  sym- 
metry of  form,  and  noble  education  from  infancy  couldi 


16  ATTILA. 

give,  she  displayed  in  every  movement ;  but  it  was  the 
calm  and  matronly  grace,  where  all  is  ease,  and  tran- 
quillity, and  self-possession.  The  same  placid  charm 
reigned  in  the  expression  of  her  countenance.  She 
seemed  to  look  with  benevolence  on  all.  Nay,  more, 
as  if  the  sorrows  which  had  reached  her  in  her  high 
station  had  taught  her  that  in  every  bosom,  however 
well  concealed,  there  is,  or  will  be,  some  store  of  grief, 
some  memory,  some  regret,  some  disappointment,  there 
mingled  with  the  gentleness  of  her  aspect  an  expres- 
sion of  pity,  or,  perhaps,  its  better  name  were  sympathy, 
which  existed  really  within,  and  formed  a  tie  between 
her  heart  and  that  of  every  other  human  thing. 

She  was,  indeed,  to  use  the  beautiful  words  of  the 
poet,  "kind  as  the  sun's  bless'd  influence."*  Yet  the 
bright  dark  eye,  the  proud  arching  lip,  and  the  expan- 
sive nostrils,  seemed  to  speak  of  a  nature  originally 
less  calm,  of  days  when  the  spirit  was  less  subdued. 
Time  and  grief,  however,  are  mighty  tamers  of  the 
most  lion-like  heart ;  and  it  was  with  that  look  of  pity, 
mingling  with  tender  pleasure,  that  she  gazed  down 
upon  a  beautiful  girl  of,  perhaps,  thirteen  years  of  age, 
who,  leaning  fondly  on  her  knees,  as  the  hymn  con- 
cluded, looked  up  in  her  face  for  sympathetic  feelings, 
while  the  sweet  sounds  still  trembled  on  her  full  rosy 
lips. 

Between  the  matron  and  the  girl  there  was  little  re- 
semblance, except  inasmuch  as  each  was  beautiful ;  and 
though  the  lineaments,  perhaps,  regarded  as  mere  lines, 
took  in  some  degree  the  same  general  form,  yet  there 
were  too  many  shades  of  diflference  to  admit  the  idea 
that  those  two  fair  beings  stood  in  the  dear  relationship 
of  mother  and  child,  although  the  fond,  relying,  cling- 
ing affection  displayed  in  the  looks  of  the  younger,  and 
the  tender  anxiety  of  the  matron's  smile  as  she  gazed 
down  upon  her  companion's  face,  argued  affections  no 
less  strong  between  them  than  such  a  tie  might  have 
produced. 

Eudochia — for  so  was  the  younger  called — offered  a 
lovely  specimen  of  that  sort  of  beauty  which,  however 
rare  in  Italy  even  now,  when  the  native  blood  of  the 
children  of  the  land  has  been  mingled  with  that  of  many 
of  the  fair-haired  nations  of  the  north,  we  find  from  the 

*  Cowley. 


J 


ATTILA.  17 

writings  of  Petronius  to  have  been  not  uncommon  in 
his  days.  Her  hair  was  of  a  light  brown,  with  a  golden 
gleam  upon  it,  as  if,  wherever  it  bent  in  its  rich  wavy- 
curls,  it  caught  and  shone  in  the  bright  rays  of  the  sun. 
Her  eyes  were  of  a  soft  hazel,  though  the  long,  sweep- 
ing black  lashes  made  them  look  darker  than  they  were : 
but  her  skin  was  of  that  brilliant  fairness  which  did  in- 
deed exceed  the 

"  Expolitum  ebur  indicum ;" 

and  the  rose  glowed  through  it  on  the  cheeks,  as  pure 
and  clear  as  in  those  lands  where  the  veiled  sun  shines 
most  soft  and  tenderly.  Her  features  were,  indeedy 
more  Greek  than  Roman ;  but  her  complexion  spoke, 
and  not  untruly,  of  a  mixture  in  her  veins  of  what  was 
then  called'barbarian  blood  by  the  proud  children  of  the 
empire.  Her  mother  had  been  the  daughter  of  a  Ger- 
riian  prince  in  alliance  with  Rome ;  but  the  Romans  of 
that  day  had  learned  to  envy  the  noble  Paulinus  his 
success  with  the  beautiful  child  of  the  wealthy  and  pow- 
erful barbarian  chief.  Too  short  a  time,  indeed,  had 
their  union  lasted  ;  for  though  Eudochia  had  drawn  her 
first  nourishment  from  her  mother's  bosom,  yet,  six 
months  after  her  birth,  the  fair  wife  of  Paulinus  had  left 
him  to  mourn  her  death  with  two  motherless  children. 
He  had  continued  to  hold  her  memory  in  solitary  affec- 
tion, filling  up,  as  is  so  common  with  man,  the  vacant 
place  left  by  love  in  the  shrine  of  his  heart  with  the 
darker  and  sterner  form  of  ambition  ;  and  while  he  led 
forward  his  son  Theodore  in  the  same  path,  he  left  his 
daughter  on  the  Dalmatian  shore,  with  one  whose  kin- 
dred blood  and  generous  nature  ensured  to  the  fair  girl 
all  a  mother's  tenderness  and  a  mother's  care.  For  her 
alone  the  lips  of  Eudochia  had  learned  to  pronounce 
those  sweetest  of  words,  my  mother — for  her  alone  had 
her  heart  learned  to  feel  the  thrill  of  filial  love. 

The  aff*ection,  however,  of  the  Lady  Flavia — for  so 
was  called  the  elder  of  whom  we  have  spoken — was  di- 
vided. For  the  love  of  man,  woman  has  but  one  place 
in  her  heart,  but  maternal  tenderness  has  many ;  and 
the  agony  of  Niobe  was  not  less  for  every  child  that 
died  than  if  she  had  had  but  one.  Flavia  looked  upon 
Eudochia  as  her  child,  and  loved  her  as  such ;  but  the 
two  others,  of  whom  we  have  said  that  group  was  com- 
posed, were  in  reality  her  children. 

B2 


18  ATTILA. 

Ammian,  the  boy,  was  like  his  mother  in  features  and 
complexion,  but  not  in  character.  More  of  his  dead 
father's  nature  had  descended  to  him,  more  of  the  wild 
and  daring  spirit  which,  sporting  with  perils  and  dan- 
gers, contemning  pain,  and  laughing  at  fear,  found  food 
for  a  bright  and  eager  imagination  in  scenes  and  cir- 
cumstances which,  to  others,  were  full  of  nothing  but 
horror  and  dismay.  His  pastime,  as  a  boy,  was  to 
climb  the  mountains,  and  spring  from  rock  to  rock  across 
the  yawning  chasms ;  to  stand  gazing  down  over  the 
dizzy  side  of  the  precipice,  and  to  drink  in  the  sublimity 
of  the  scene  below ;  to  dash  through  the  wild  waves 
when  the  southwest  wind  rolled  them  in  mountains 
on  the  shore,  or  to  mingle  with  the  pagan  inhabi- 
tants, which  still  filled  many  of  the  villages  near,  and  to 
watch  without  taking  part  in  those  sacrifices  which  were 
prohibited  under  pain  of  death  by  the  Christian  empe- 
rors, but  which  often  took  place  even  in  the  open  face 
of  day.  His  mother  put  no  check  upon  his  hazardous 
pleasures,  for  she  was  Roman  enough  to  wish  that  her 
children  might  never  know  the  name  of  fear.  But  yet 
her  heart  sometimes  sunk  with  a  chilly  dread  when  she 
witnessed  his  wild  exploits  ;  for  though  the  qualities 
which  prompted  them  were  those  for  which  she  had 
loved  his  father,  yet  she  could  not  forget  that  the  same 
daring  spirit  had  led  that  father  to  death,  by  barbarian 
hands,  in  the  wilds  of  Pannonia. 

There  was  one  more  in  the  group  under  the  cypresses, 
and  one  that  must  not  be  passed  over  in  silence.  She, 
like  Eudochia,  was  reclining  by  her  mother's  side ;  but 
had  the  great  Florentine  sought  two  lovely  models  from 
which  to  depict  night  and  da}%  none  could  have  been 
found  equal  to  these  two  beautiful  girls.  Ildica,*  how- 
ever, was  fully  two  years  older  than  Eudochia,  and  those 
two  years  made  a  great  difference.  Eudochia  was  a 
child ;  Ildica  was  no  longer  so.  Eudochia  was  the  vio- 
let, but  Ildica  was  the  rose.  Her  form,  too,  spoke  it ; 
youth  was  in  every  trace  :  but  there  was  the  rounded 
contour,  the  graceful  sweeping  lines,  which  tell  that 

*  The  learned  reader  will  perceive  that  I  have  changed  the  last 
syllable  of  this  name,  for  the  sake  of  a  more  regular  feminine  termi- 
nation than  the  original  gives,  in  sound  at  least,  to  an  English  ear. 
Let  me  acknowledge  at  once,  also,  that  I  have  followed  the  same 
bold  plan  throughout,  changing  everything  that  did  not  suit  my 
purpose. 


ATTILA.  19 

nature's  brightest  effort  to  produce  beauty  is  full  and 
complete.  She  was  at  that  age  when  the  causeless 
blush  comes  frequent,  and  the  unbidding  sigh  is  first 
known;  when  the  cheek  will  sometimes  glow  as  if  with 
shame  at  the  innocent  consciousness  of  loveliness  ;  and 
her  heart  tells  woman  that  she  was  created  for  others. 
Through  the  transparent  cheek  of  the  Dalmatian  girl 
the  eloquent  blood  played  apparent  at  every  word,  and 
the  long,  lustrous,  deep  black  eyes,  the  very  eyelids  of 
which  seemed  flooded  with  light,  spoke  of  feelings  within 
that  snowy  bosom  which  were  yet  to  acquire  inten- 
sity and  fire.  And  yet  Ildica  fancied  herself  still  a 
child.  So  gradual,  so  calm,  had  as  yet  been  the  tran- 
sition, as  their  years  passed  away  in  that  remote  spot 
without  any  of  the  cares,  the  turmoils,  the  passions, 
and  the  follies  of  courts  and  of  cities  breaking  the  tran- 
quil current  of  their  days,  that  she  hardly  knew  the  two 
years  which  had  effected  so  great  a  change  in  her  being 
had  passed  otherwise  than  in  infancy.  She  had  never 
very  eagerly  sought  the  hght  sports  and  pastimes  of 
Eudochia,  and  others  of  the  happy  age  :  she  had  always 
shown  a  disposition  to  meditation  and  to  feeling.  It 
was  not  that  she  wanted  cheerfulness  ;  far  from  it ;  but 
it  was,  that  through  her  very  gayety  was  seen  a  train 
of  deeper  thought.  There  was  a  character  of  greater 
intensity  in  all  she  did  than  is  usual  in  early  youth. 
She  loved  music,  she  loved  poetry,  she  loved  every  art ; 
and  her  mother  saw  her  own  mind  reflected  in  that  of 
her  daughter,  with  a  shade,  perhaps,  of  more  passionate 
energy  derived  from  the  character  of  her  father. 

Thus  sat  they  by  the  bright  stream  of  the  H3'ader,  whose 
clear  water  served  to  mingle  with  the  wine  of  their  light 
evening  meal,  enjoying,  with  sweet  tranquillity  of  heart, 
the  loveliness  of  a  scene  which,  remembered  from  his 
earliest  days,  had  lured  Diocletian  thither,  some  century 
before,  from  all  the  charms  of  power  and  empire,  to 
spend  his  latter  hours  in  a  remote  province  and  a  pri- 
vate station.  Simple  as  that  meal  was,  consisting  of 
nothing  but  light  cakes  of  a  fine  flour,  with  some  dried 
fruits  and  some  early  strawberries,  it  was  more  deli- 
cious to  those  who  ate  it,  in  that  fair  scene  and  that 
happy  hour,  than  all  the  innumerable  dishes  of  a  Roman 
supper.  Still  there  seemed  something  wanting  ;  for — 
as  the  last  stanza  of  the  hymn  was  sung,  and  Eudochia 
lay  reclining  on  the  Lady  Flavia's  lap,  and  gazing  up  in 


20  ATTILA. 

her  expressive  face — the  eyes  of  Ildica  had  followed  the 
course  of  the  Hyader  down  towards  the  sea,  and  rested 
with  a  longing,  anxious  look  upon  the  boat  that,  with 
slow  and  easy  motion,  as  the  light  but  steady  wind  im- 
pelled it  over  the  waters,  steered  onward,  for  some  time, 
towards  that  part  of  the  bay  near  which  stood  the  little 
village  of  Aspalathus,  a  sort  of  appendage  to  the  palace 
of  Diocletian.  Ammian,  her  brother,  had  remarked  it 
too,  and  watched  it  also  ;  but  in  a  few  minutes  its  course 
was  changed,  and  its  prow  turned  towards  one  of  the 
islands,  ildica  said  not  a  word,  but  she  bent  down  her 
eyes  on  the  grass,  and  plucked  one  of  the  purple  cro- 
cuses which  checkered  the  green  whereon  she  sat. 

"  He  will  not  come  to-day,"  said  her  brother,  as  if 
quite  sure  that  the  same  thoughts  were  in  his  bosom 
and  his  sister's  at  that  moment ;  "  and,  besides,  he  would 
not  appear  in  a  solitary  boat  like  that.  Ten  such  boats 
would  not  have  held  the  gorgeous  train  which  followed 
him  when  he  came  last  year  to  take  Theodore  away." 

"  But  remember,  Ammian,  my  son,"  said  Flavia, 
smiling  at  the  eager  looks  of  her  two  children,  "  re- 
member, when  last  he  came,  our  cousin  Paulinus  was 
sent  to  Dalmatia  on  the  emperor's  service,  as  count  of 
the  offices,  and  now  he  comes  but  as  a  private  man  to 
see  his  daughter.  He  is  not  one  of  those  degraded  Ro- 
mans who  in  the  present  day  never  travel  without  an 
army  of  domestics.  See,  the  boat  has  changed  its 
course  again.  It  did  but  bear  up  against  the  current  of 
wind  between  the  islands.  Eudochia,  my  sweet  child, 
it  is  perhaps  your  father  after  all." 

As  she  spoke,  the  boat,  catching  the  favourable  breeze, 
came  more  rapidly  towards  the  land,  and  in  a  moment 
after  was  hidden  from  their  eyes  by  the  wavy  ground 
which  lay  between  them  and  the  Adriatic.  "  Run,  As- 
par,  run,"  cried  Flavia  to  one  of  the  slaves ;  "  run  and 
see  where  the  boat  lands.  Shall  we  return  homeward, 
Eudochia]  we  may  meet  him  sooner." 

Ildica  exclaimed,  "  Oh,  yes  !"  but  Eudochia  and  Am- 
mian reminded  their  mother  that  they  had  promised  to 
meet  Paulinus  on  the  spot  where  they  had  parted  from 
him,  even  where  they  then  sat ;  and,  while  they  waited 
in  the  heart-beating  moments  of  expectation,  the  light- 
footed  slave  again  appeared  upon  the  upland,  which  he 
had  cleared  like  a  hunted  deer,  and  stood  waving  his 
hand,  as  if  to  tell  that  their  hopes  were  verified. 


ATTILA.  21 

For  a  moment  or  two  he  paused,  looking  back  towards 
the  sea,  and  then,  rmming  forward  to  the  cypress,  he 
said,  "  Yes,  lady,  yes !  they  have  reached  the  shore, 
and  are  coming  hither.  I  saw  them  spring  from  the 
boat  to  the  landing-place  of  the  palace ;  and  while  sev- 
eral ran  up  towards  the  portico  bearing  baggage,  four 
took  the  path  between  the  rocks  which  leads  up  hither 
by  the  field  of  Eusebius,  the  gardener." 

"  Was  my  brother  there,  good  Aspar  V  cried  Eudo- 
chia,  eagerly ;  "  was  my  brother  there  too  V 

"  I  could  not  distinguish,  sweet  one,"  replied  the 
slave  ;  "  the  distance  was  too  long  for  my  sight,  and  the 
sun  was  directly  in  my  eyes ;  but  the  one  that  came 
first  was  slight  in  form,  and  seemed  more  like  your 
brother  than  the  Count  Paulinus  himself.  There  was 
the  lightness  of  youth,  too,  in  his  step,  as  he  bounded 
up  over  the  rocks  like  a  fawn  towards  its  doe  !" 

Flavia  smiled,  and  lldica  smiled  too ;  but  as  she  did 
so  there  was  a  shght,  a  very  slight  change  of  colour  in 
her  cheek.  It  grew  paler  ;  but  it  was  not  the  paleness 
of  either  apprehension  or  disappointment ;  it  only  spoke 
of  some  intense  feelings  busy  at  her  heart,  though  what 
they  were  she  herself  knew  not.  At  that  moment  the 
slave  exclaimed,  "  Lo,  lo !  he  comes !"  and  all  eyes 
were  turned  towards  the  upland. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE    MEETING. 

The  lower  edge  of  the  sun's  broad  golden  disk  touched, 
or  seemed  to  touch,  the  rippling  waters  of  the  Adri- 
atic, and  sea  and  sky  were  all  in  one  general  glow, 
when  the  form  of  the  expected  guest  rose  over  the 
slope,  and,  with  joyful  arms  outstretched  towards  the 
group  under  the  cypresses,  he  appeared  clear  and  de- 
fined upon  the  bright  expanse  behind  him.  The  figure 
was  that  of  a  youth  of  eighteen  or  nineteen  years  of 
age,  tall  for  his  time  of  life,  and  of  that  form  which 
promises  great  after  strength.  As  he  stood  there,  in- 
deed, with  his  figure  partly  concealed  by  the  mantle 


28 


ATTILA. 


which  fell  from  his  shoulders,  and  with  the  smooth 
features,  the  unfurrovved  brow,  and  beardless  chin  of 
youth,  turned  from  the  searching  rays  of  the  sun,  one 
might  have  attributed  to  him  many  more  years  than  he 
had  in  reality  numbered ;  but  there  was  the  bounding 
joy  of  boyhood  still  in  his  steps,  as,  followed  by  three 
persons,  among  whom  the  eye  of  Flavia  sought  in  vain 
for  Paulinus,  he  sprang  across  the  sloping  ground  to 
meet  so  many  that  he  loved.  To  Flavia  his  first  salute 
was  given  in  the  warm,  the  touching,  the  affectionate 
kiss  of  filial  love ;  calling  her,  as  he  did  so,  by  the  ten- 
der name  which  his  heart  always  willingly  granted  to 
her  who  had  watched  his  infancy  and  formed  his  boy- 
hood, "  My  mother !"  His  next  glance  was,  certainly, 
to  Ildica,  but  his  words  and  his  embrace  were  given, 
first,  to  his  sister  Eudochia,  and  then  even  to  Ammian, 
whom  he  also  called  "  his  brother." 

The  words,  however,  were  few,  and  the  embrace 
short,  ere  he  turned  to  Ildica,  and  took  her  hand.  But 
his  aspect  was  for  a  moment  timid  and  uncertain,  as  if 
he  knew  not  well  in  what  words  and  what  manner  he 
was  to  greet  her.  Her  eye,  however,  was  full  of  light; 
her  lip  smiled  Avith  the  irrepressible  spirit  of  joy  ;  her 
breath  seemed  to  come  short  with  some  thrilling  emo- 
tion in  her  bosom ;  and  Theodore,  growing  bolder  as 
her  hand  touched  his,  drew  her,  too,  to  his  arms,  and 
pressed  a  warmer  kiss  upon  her  lips.  To  her  he  would 
not  say  "  My  sister  /"  though  he  began  those  words 
which  he  had  so  often  used  towards  her  ;  but  he  stopped 
short,  and  his  lips  murmured,  "  My — my  Ildica  !" 

If  any  one  marked  the  agitation  of  either  of  those 
two  young  and  happy  beings,  it  was  among  the  slaves ; 
for  Eudochia  and  Ammian  had  no  eyes  as  yet  for  the 
slighter  indications  of  the  heart's  inmost  feelings ;  and 
Flavia,  without  any  other  obsei'vation,  asked  eagerly, 
"  But  where  is  Paulinus  ]  Where  is  your  father,  The- 
odore." 

"  Alas,  my  mother,"  replied  the  youth,  "  he  has  been 
disappointed,  and  would  not  make  me  a  sharer  therein. 
Obliged  to  go  into  Cappadocia  by  the  emperor's  com- 
mands, he  proceeds  from  Cesarea  to  escort  the  Emperess 
Eudoxia  to  Jerusalem.  But  he  has  promised,  if  fate  be 
propitious,  to  join  us  all  here  on  his  return.  He  would 
iiot  let  me  bear  him  company ;  but  having  given  me  the 


JLTTILA.  SP 

charge  of  some  slight  business  at  Salona,  left  me  to 
hasten  hither,  and  wait  his  coming." 

"  Let  us  return  homeward,  then,  Theodore,"  said  the 
matron,  "  and  you  shall  tell  us  all  the  news  wherewith 
your  young  and  ever  active  mind  is  loaded.  I  am  sure 
you  have  not  yet  learned,  my  son,  to  value  all  the 
things  of  the  world  according  to  their  real  lightness, 
and  to  suffer  what  the  idle  multitude  call  great  events 
to  pass  you  by  as  matters  which  have  been  acted  over 
and  over  again  a  thousand  times  already,  and  to  be  en- 
acted still  a  million  times  more  in  the  ages  yet  to  come. 
Heaven  forbid  that  you  should  have  acquired,  since  you 
left  us,  such  sorrowful  wisdom  !  though  your  father 
writes  to  me  that  you  have  become  a  man,  whereas 
you  left  us  a  boy.  But  you  linger  as  if  you  would  fain 
stay  here." 

"  I  ordered  the  boat  to  come  round  hither,"  replied 
the  youth,  "  when  I  found  you  were  all  here  ;  and  I 
would  willingly  gaze  again  upon  all  these  lovely  things. 
I  have  beheld  many  lands,  dear  Ildica,"  he  added,  turn- 
ing naturally  towards  her  with  whom  his  heart  held 
the  nearest  communion — "  I  have  beheld  many  lands 
since  I  left  you  all  on  this  very  spot ;  Athens,  the  city 
of  Constantine,  Ida,  and  Olympus.  My  feet  have  even 
trodden  Tempo  ;  and  yet  there  is  no  scene  so  beautiful 
to  my  eyes  as  that  lovely  sea,  with  Bratia,  and  Bubua, 
and  Olyntha,  rising  like  living  sapphires  from  its  golden 
bosom,  and  those  grand  Autariatian  hills,  leading  up  the 
soul's  flight  to  heaven." 

Without  further  question,  they  all  once  more  laid 
themselves  down  upon  the  turf;  feeling  that  Theodore 
would  gladly  see  the  sun  set  in  that  spot  with  which  so 
many  memories  of  early  happiness  were  associated ; 
and  for  a  few  minutes  they  left  him  in  silence  to  enjoy 
the  delight  of  his  return.  He  gazed  round  the  pros- 
pect ;  and  it  was  easy  to  see  that  it  was  not  alone  the 
loveliness  that  his  eye  rested  on  which  busied  his 
thoughts,  but  that  remembrance  was  eagerly  unclasp- 
ing with  her  fairy  touch  the  golden  casket  of  the  past, 
and  displaying,  one  by  one,  the  treasured  and  gemlike 
memories  of  many  joyful  hours.  As  he  gazed,  the  last 
effulgent  spot  of  the  sun's  orb  sunk  below  the  sea ;  and 
he  turned  his  look  upon  Ildica,  on  whose  hand  his  own 
had  accidentally  fallen.     Her  eyes  were  full  of  hquid 


24  ATTILA. 

light ;  and  her  cheek  was  glowing  as  warmly  as  that 
sky  from  which  the  sun  had  just  departed. 

"  And  now,  Theodore,"  said  Flavia,  with  a  smile, 
"  tell  us  what  tidings  you  bring ;  and  first,  before  one 
word  of  the  wide  public  news,  say,  what  of  your  father  1 
How  is  he  in  health  1  how  fares  he  at  the  court  1  Is  he 
as  much  loved  as  ever?" 

"  I  had  forgotten,"  replied  Theodore,  "in  the  joy  of 
coming  back — in  the  dreamlike  and  scarcely  certain 
feeling  of  being  here  once  more  among  you  all — I  had 
forgotten  everything  else.  Paulinus  is  well,  my  mother ; 
and  his  favour  with  the  emperor  and  emperess  higher 
than  ever,  though  he  is  not  loved  by  Chrysapheus ;  but 
he  fears  him  not.  Here,  Zeno !"  he  continued,  addres- 
sing one  of  the  servants  who  had  followed  him,  and  who 
had  now  mingled  with  the  slaves  of  Flavia — "  give  me 
the  case  which  I  bade  you  bring ;"  and  from  a  richly- 
chased  silver  casket  which  the  slave  laid  beside  him 
he  drew  forth  a  string  of  large  and  perfect  pearls. 
"  These,  Eudochia,"  he  said,  throwing  them  over  his  sis- 
ter's neck,  "  these  from  the  emperess,  for  her  goddaugh- 
ter;  and  this,"  he  added,  taking  the  rich  collar  of  emeralds 
which  lay  below — "  and  this  from  my  father,  Paulinus, 
for  his  dear  Ildica.  Many  were  the  messages  of  love," 
he  continued,  as  he  placed  the  splendid  present  sent  by 
his  father  in  the  hand  of  the  beautiful  girl  whom  it  was 
to  adorn,  and,  with  the  playfulness  of  boyhood  not  yet 
passed  away,  twined,  smiling,  the  links  of  emeralds 
round  her  arm — "  many  were  the  messages  of  love  my 
father  bade  me  give  to  all ;  and  to  you,  my  mother,  I 
bear  this  letter :  but  let  me  be  the  first  to  tell  you  that 
your  possession  of  the  palace  is  confirmed  by  the  em- 
peror, and  that  the  estates  withheld  from  you  by  an  mi- 
just  judge  are  restored." 

"  Thank  you,  my  son,  thank  you,"  replied  Flavia,  open- 
ing the  thread  with  which  the  letter  was  bound  round ; 
"but  this  light  is  too  faint  to  enable  me  to  decipher 
your  father's  epistle.  Let  us  to  the  boat,  my  Theodore, 
and  so  homeward ;  for  I  long  to  learn  more  of  what  has 
passed  at  Byzantium,  and  the  twihght  is  every  moment 
getting  a  grayer  hue." 

The  youth  lingered  no  longer,  but  rose  with  all  the 
rest ;  and  while  Flavia,  talking  to  Ammian,  who  often 
looked  behind,  led  the  way  over  the  upland  and  down 
the  path  towards  the  sea,  Theodore  followed,  at  some 


ATTILA.  25 

little  distance,  with  Eudochia  clinging  to  his  left  arm, 
and  with  his  right  hand  clasping  that  of  Ildica.  As  they 
went  wandering  omvard  through  the  sweet-smelling 
copses  of  myrtle,  which  sheltered  the  grounds  of  a  neigh- 
bouring garden  from  the  east  wind,  Eudochia  asked  a 
thousand  questions  of  her  brother,  and  marvelled  much 
that  he  had  grown  so  tall  and  strong  in  the  short  absence 
of  nine  months.  Ildica  said  not  a  word  ;  but  she  listened 
to  the  tones  of  his  voice  as  he  replied  to  his  sister ;  she 
felt  the  touch  of  his  hand  as  it  held  hers ;  she  saw  the 
brother  of  her  love — the  m.ore  than  brother — returned 
from  a  far  distance  and  a  long  absence  ;  and  a  new  hap- 
piness that  she  had  never  known  before  filled  her  heart 
with  emotions  too  intense  for  speech.  Did  she  know 
what  she  felt  ?  did  she  investigate  the  nature  of  the  busy, 
tumultuous  sensations  that  then  possessed  her  bosom  1 
Neither !  the  absence  of  one  with  whom  she  had  dwelt 
in  affection  from  her  infancy  had,  indeed,  taught  her  that 
there  w^ere  strange  feelings  in  her  heart,  different  from 
any  that  she  had  ever  experienced  before ;  but,  oh ! 
sweet  and  happy  skill  of  woman,  she  had  closed  her 
eyes  against  all  investigation  of  what  those  feelings 
were,  lest  she  should  find  anything  mingling  with  them 
which  might  render  them  less  blessed.  It  was  not  for 
her  to  discover  for  herself  that  which  was  reserved  for 
another  to  explain. 

The  considerate  slaves  lingered  somewhat  farther 
still  behind,  caring  for  the  cups  and  vessels  which  had 
serv'^ed  the  evening  meal,  and  listening  with  the  wonder- 
ing ears  of  hermits  to  the  news  brought  by  their  fellows 
from  the  capital  of  the  Eastern  w'orld.  Much,  too,  had 
those  slaves  to  tell  of  all  the  splendid  scenes  which  were 
hourly  taking  place  in  Constantinople,  and  the  high  favour 
and  honour  of  their  master,  Paulinus,  at  the  imperial  court. 
Each  feeling  liis  importance  increased  by  the  honours 
and  virtues  of  his  lord,  exalted  in  no  measured  terms 
the  power  and  dignity  of  Paulinus ;  and  to  have  heard 
the  praises  of  his  menials,  one  might  believe  that  he 
excelled  in  learning  and  in  talents  the  greatest  men  of 
liteiature's  most  golden  days,  and  rivalled  in  the  field 
the  most  renowned  warriors  of  either  Greece  or  Rome. 
One  thing,  at  all  events,  was  to  be  gathered  from  their 
discourse,  and  to  be  received  without  abatement ;  which 
was,  that  he  possessed  the  great  and  happy  talent  of 
making  himself  loved  by  those  who  served  him.     Such, 

Vol..  l.-C 


26  ATTILA. 

indeed,  was  his  character ;  dignified,  but  not  haughty, 
to  his  equals ;  respectful,  but  not  slavish,  to  his  superiors, 
he  had  always  a  kindly  word  or  a  warm  smile  to  give 
to  those  whom  fortune  had  placed  beneath  him.  He 
did  not  court  popularity ;  and  the  vulgar  gratulations  of 
the  circus  would  have  been  offensive  to  his  ear ;  but  to 
a  menial  or  to  a  woman  he  at  once  unbent  the  calm  and 
philosophic  reserve  of  his  demeanour  for  the  time  of 
their  temporary  communication ;  and,  with  a  gleam  of 
kindly  warmth,  he  cheered  all  those  who  approached 
him,  as  weaker  or  less  fortunate  than  himself.  Such  a 
tribute  is  due  to  a  man  whose  innocence  even  was  not 
his  friend,  and  who  awakened  jealousies  even  while  he 
strove  to  disarm  them. 

Speaking  thus  of  their  well-loved  lord,  the  slaves  fol- 
lowed slowly  till  they  approached  the  shore  ;  and  then, 
running  forward  to  make  up  for  their  tardiness  by  mo- 
mentary alacrity,  they  officiously  aided  the  boatmen  to 
push  the  boat  close  up  to  some  gray  rocks,  which, 
shining  through  the  clear  blue  water  for  many  a  foot 
below  the  ripple  that  checkered  the  surface,  afforded  a 
sort  of  natural  pier  for  the  party  to  embark.  Flavia  and 
her  companions  took  their  seats  in  the  stern,  and  six  or 
seven  of  the  slaves  placed  themselves  in  the  bow,  the 
rest  proceeding  along  the  shore  towards  the  palace. 
Ammian,  leaning  over  the  side  in  his  fanciful  mood, 
gazed  down  upon  the  small  waves  as  they  were  dashed 
from  the  path  of  the  boat ;  and  then,  catching  a  rippling 
gleam  of  yellow  light  tinging  the  crest  of  one  of  those 
tiny  billows,  he  looked  up  to  the  heavens,  where,  just 
in  that  spot  of  deep  sky  towards  which  the  streamer  of 
the  aplustrum  turned,  calm,  and  large,  and  bright,  rose 
Hesperus  above  the  world.  He  gazed  upon  it  for  sev- 
eral minutes  with  a  look  of  rapt  enjoyment,  as  if  for  the 
time  he  had  forgotten  everything  in  the  universe  but 
that  one  bright  solitary  star.  Ildica  had  hitherto  sat 
between  her  mother  and  Theodore,  Hstening  in  silence 
to  the  brief  and  broken  tales  of  his  late  travels  which 
he  was  telling ;  but  as  a  pause  ensued,  she  fixed  her 
eyes  upon  Ammian,  and  watched  him  with  a  soft  smile, 
as  if  she  knew  what  was  passing  in  his  thoughts,  and 
waited  to  see  what  turn  the  fancy  would  take.  From 
time  to  time  her  eyes  appealed  to  Theodore,  and  then 
turned  again  to  her  brother,  till  at  length  her  sweet 
musical  voice,  speaking  her  pure  native  tongue,  but 


ATTILA.  27 

slightly  touched  and  softened  by  the  Greek  accent,  was 
heard  breaking  the  momentary  silence  which  had  fallen 
upon  them  all. 

"  Sing  it,  Ammian,"  she  said,  speaking  to  his  unut- 
tered  thoughts,  "  sing  it !  Theodore  will  hear  it  well 
pleased.  It  is  my  mother's  poetry,  written  since  you 
left  us,  Theodore  :  sing  it,  Ammian !" 

The  boy  looked  up  into  his  sister's  eyes  with  a  gay 
smile,  and  then  poured  suddenly  forth  in  song  a  voice 
clear  and  melodious  as  her  own.  The  first  two  stanzas 
he  sung  alone  ;  but  at  the  end  of  the  second,  and  of 
each  that  succeeded,  all  those  who  knew  the  music 
took  up  the  first  as  a  chorus,  sending  sweet  harmony 
over  the  twilight  waters,  while  the  rowers  with  their 
oars  kept  time  to  his 


SONG  TO  THE  EVENING  STAR. 

I. 

Hesperus  !  Hesperus  !  in  thy  bright  hand 
Bearing  thy  torch,  lit  at  day's  parting  beams, 

Shed  thy  sweet  influence  o'er  our  dear  land, 
Sooth  thou  our  slumbers  and  brighten  our  dreams. 

II. 

Hesperus  !  Hesperus !  each  closing  flower 
Yields  thee  the  sigh  of  her  odorous  breath, 

Thine,  too,  the  nightingale's  musical  hour. 
Thine  be  the  offering  of  song  and  of  wreath. 

Hesperus  !  Hesperus  !  &c. 

III. 

Hesperus !  Hesperus !  holding  thy  way 
Lone,  but  serene,  'tween  the  day  and  the  night, 

Guide  all  our  hearts  with  the  same  even  sway, 
Soften  each  sorrow  and  calm  each  dehght. 

Hesperus  !  Hesperus  !  &c. 

IV. 

Hesperus  !  Hesperus !  star  of  repose  ! 

Herald  of  rest  to  the  labours  of  day  ! 
Through  worlds  and  through  ages,  where'er  thy  light  glows, 

Honour  and  thanks  shall  attend  on  thy  ray. 

Hesperus  !  Hesperus  !  &c. 


28  ATTILA. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE    YOUNG    LOVERS. 

It  was  more  than  an  hour  after  the  boat  had  reached 
the  landing-place,  and,  fatigued  with  a  long,  bright, 
happy  day,  Ammian  and  Eudochia  had  sought  the  re- 
pose of  hearts  at  ease ;  while  Flavia,  sitting  with  her 
daughter  and  Theodore  in  the  small  chamber  near  the 
great  Corinthian  hall  in  the  palace  of  Diocletian,  busied 
herself  with  manifold  questions  in  regard  to  those  friends 
of  other  years,  in  Constantinople  and  in  Rome,  from 
whom  she  had  voluntarily  separated  herself,  in  order 
to  lead  her  children  up  to  years  of  free  agency,  at  a 
distance  from  the  luxury  and  corruption  of  either  great 
metropolis.  The  anecdotes  which  he  had  to  relate,  the 
little  traits  and  rumours  which  he  had  collected  con- 
cerning those  whom  she  had  once  loved  dearly,  seemed 
of  greater  interest  to  the  Lady  Flavia  than  even  the 
news  of  more  personal  importance  which  he  had  told 
her.  Yet  that  news  imported  that  the  cession  of  a  por- 
tion of  Illyria  by  Valentinian  to  Theodosius  was  com- 
pletely defined — that  the  dwelling  in  which  she  had 
found  a  home,  by  the  interest  of  Paulinus,  was  now 
fully  transferred  from  the  monarch  of  the  West,  who 
had  shown  a  strong  disposition  to  despoil  her  of  her  i 
lands  in  distant  provinces,  to  the  chief  of  the  Eastern 
empire,  who,  on  the  contrary,  had  hitherto  given  her 
kindly  aid  and  protection ;  and  that  her  possession  of 
that  sweet  spot,  near  wiiich  many  of  the  estates  of  her 
dead  husband  lay,  was  confirmed  to  her  by  the  hand 
of  Theodosius  himself. 

The  lamp  had  been  placed  at  her  right  hand,  in  order 
that  she  might  peruse  the  letter  of  Paulinus ;  but  still 
she  had  not  proceeded  to  that  task.  What  were  the 
feelings  which  stayed  her,  it  were  diflficult  to  say  ;  but 
the  open  pages  lay  unread  by  her  side  ;  and  though  she 
more  than  once  took  them  up,  as  if  to  begin,  she  laid 
them  down  again  as  often,  and  asked  some  new  ques- 
tion. At  length,  as  the  moonlight  found  its  way  through 
the  half-drawn  curtains  of  the  door,  she  once  more 


ATTILA.  29 

raised  the  letter,  saying,  "  Well,  I  will  read  it  now," 
and  her  eye  again  fixed  upon  the  first  few  words. 

"  Notwithstanding,  gentle  Flavia,"  so  the  epistle  ran, 
"  the  desire  I  had  expressed  to  keep  hidden  from  my 
son  and  our  sweet  Ildica  our  hopes  and  purposes,  yet 
feelings  that  1  cannot  well  explain,  but  which  I  will  now 
attempt  to  depict,  have  induced  me,  sure  of  your  con- 
sent and  approbation,  to  tell  him,  ere  he  left  me — per- 
haps for  tlie  last  time — that  it  was  my  wish  and  hope, 
if  his  own  heart  seconded  my  desire,  that  he  should  in 
his  twentieth  year  choose  the  one  we  both  so  dearly 
love  for  his  bride." 

Flavia  raised  her  eyes  to  her  daughter  and  the  son  of 
Paulinus,  who  had,  in  the  occupation  which  had  just 
employed  her,  a  fair  excuse  for  speaking  in  low  and 
gentle  murmurs.  They  had  farther  drawn  back  the 
curtains,  and  were  gazing  from  the  door  upon  the 
moonbeams  which  lighted  up  the  great  hall ;  and  a 
bright,  warm  smile  upon  the  mother's  face  told  that  her 
own  heart  took  kindly  part  in  the  fond  feelings  w^hich 
were  so  busy  in  theirs.  She  turned  to  the  letter  again, 
however,  without  comment,  and  read  on.  "  I  am  about," 
continued  Paulinus,  "  to  travel  through  the  provinces, 
and  the  will  of  God  may  require  that  I  shall  never  re- 
turn. I  know  not  why,  but  I  have  a  sadness  upon  me. 
As  the  sun  goes  down,  small  objects  cast  long  shadows  ; 
and  I  have  fancied  that  I  once,  and  only  once,  beheld  a 
cold  look  in  the  eye  of  the  emperor  towards  me,  a  tri- 
umphant smile  on  the  countenance  of  Chrysapheus  ;  yet 
if  ever  omens  were  infallible,  they  would  be  the  smiles 
of  our  enemies  and  the  coldness  of  our  friends.  Never- 
theless, let  me  acknowledge  all  my  weakness — weak- 
ness which  philosophy  cannot  conquer,  and  which  it 
were  wisdom  to  conceal  from  any  other  eye  than  thine, 
oh,  thou  that  hast  been  as  a  sister  to  my  widowed  heart, 
as  a  mother  to  my  orphan  children.  Before  any  evil 
augury  could  be  drawn  from  the  looks  of  others,  my  own 
heart  seemed  to  feel  the  coming  on  of  fate.  There  has 
been  a  shadow  on  my  spirit,  an  apprehension  of  coming 
evil,  a  sensation  of  neighbouring  danger,  such  as  do- 
mestic animals  feel  when  near  a  Hon,  even  without  see- 
ing it." 

Flavia  laid  down  the  page,  murmuring,  "  And  is  it  so, 
Pauhnus  1  alas,  and  is  it  so  1  Go  forth,  my  children,'* 
she  added,  abruptly,  seeing  them  still  standing  in  the 

C2 


30  ATTILA. 

doorway;  "you  seem  as  if  you  longed  to  taste  the 
moonlight  air.  Go  forth  !  It  is  a  grand  sight  to  gaze 
upon  the  waters  of  the  Adriatic  from  that  noble  portico. 
It  expands  the  heart,  it  elevates  the  mind,  it  raises  the 
soul  to  the  God  who  made  all  things.  Go  forth,  then, 
my  children,  I  would  willingly  be  alone." 

They  needed  no  second  bidding ;  for  she  told  them 
to  do  that  which  had  lain  as  a  longing  at  their  hearts 
ever  since  she  had  begun  to  read.     Not  a  year  before, 
when  they  had  last  parted,  they  w^ould  have  waited  no 
command — nay.  no  permission;  but  would  at  once,  in 
the   unconscious  liberty  of  the    young    heart,    bound 
forth  to  enjoy  the  scenes  they  loved,  in  the  society  that 
they  loved  not  less — that  of  each  other.     But  a  change, 
had  come  over  their  feelings  since  then,  rendering  all 
their  intercourse  more  sweet,  a  thousand  times  more 
sweet,  but  more  timid  also.     Theodore,  indeed,  knew 
why ;  for  his  father's  parting  words — the  solemn  sanc- 
tion which   Paulinus  had   given   to   his   future  union 
with  Ildica,  in   case  death   should   prevent  a  father's 
lips  from  pronouncing  the  blessing  at  their   marriage 
feast — had  opened  his  eyes  to  the  nature  of  his  own 
sensations.     No   sooner  had  the  few  first  words  been- 
uttered   by  Paulinus   than   he  had   felt  at   once   that 
his   love    for    Ildica   was    more   than  fraternal    affec- 
tion;  that  it  was  different — how  different! — from  that 
which  he  experienced  towards  Eudochia;  how  different 
from  that  which  he  entertained  towards  any  other  hu- 
man being!      With   Ildica,  the  knowledge  was   more 
vague  :  it  was  more  a  sensation  than  a  certainty.     So 
long  as  Theodore  had  been  with  her  she  had  gone  on 
treating  him  as  a  brother ;  but  with  the  feelings  of  her 
heart  changing  towards  him  still,  as  imperceptibly,  but  I 
still  as  completely,  as  the  green  small  berry  changes  to 
the  purple  grape,  the  verdant  bud  to  the  expanded  and 
to  the  yellow  leaf.     So  long  as  he  had  been  with  her  i 
she  had  felt  no  alteration,  though  it  took  place  ;  but  du-  , 
ring  his  absence  she  meditated  on  those  things  long  and  ! 
deeply;  and  on  his  return  she  met   him  with  not  less  | 
affection,  but  with  deep  and  timid  emotions,  mingling  a  I 
consciousness  with  her  every  look,  which  was  sweet  to  ; 
the  eye  that  saw  it,  and  that  wished  it  to  be  so. 

Theodore  raised  the  curtain,  and  Ildica  passed  out ; 
but  ere  she  had  taken  two  steps  in  that  grand  moonlight 
hall,  Theodore's  hand  clasped  hers,  and  he  led  her  on 


ATTILA.  31 

through  all  those  splendid  apartments — which  have  been, 
even  in  ruins,  the  wonder  and  the  admiration  of  all  after 
days — to  the  vast  colonnade,  six  hundred  feet  in  length, 
which  fronted  and  overlooked  the  beautiful  Adriatic. 
As  they  passed,  in  the  various  apartments  of  the  slaves 
and  domestics  were  to  be  seen  lights,  and  to  be  heard 
many  a  gay  voice  laughing ;  and  at  the  end  of  the  prin- 
cipal streets  of  the  palace,  f6r  it  had  its  streets  as  well 
as  corridors,  two  or  three  groups  were  seen  playing  in 
the  moonlight  with  polished  pieces  of  bone,  or,  with 
loud  and  vehement  gesticulations,  disputing  about  their 
game.  Theodore  almost  feared  that  the  portico  itself 
might  be  tenanted  by  some  such  party ;  and  his  heart 
had  anticipated  an  hour  of  lonely  wandering  with  her 
he  loved  so  eagerly,  that  he  might  not  have  brooked 
disappointment  with  old  and  stoical  patience.  That 
portico,  however,  was  considered  by  the  general  inhabi- 
tants of  the  palace,  and  those  also  of  the  neighbouring 
village,  as  in  some  degree  sacred  ground.  It  was  there 
that  the  great  emperor,  after  having  conquered  and 
reigned  in  glory  through  the  prime  of  life,  after  having 
satisfied  the  vengeful  zeal  of  his  counsellors  against  the 
Christian  sects,  which  now,  in  spite  of  all  his  persecu- 
tions, peopled  the  whole  land,  after  having  made  his 
name  awful  by  deeds  of  blood  not  less  than  by  deeds  of 
magnificence,  had  been  accustomed  to  sit,  self-stripped 
of  his  power,  and  to  gaze  out,  after  having  heen  an 
emperor^  upon  nearly  the  same  scene  which  his  eyes  be- 
held before  he  was  anything  but  a  slave.  Although  little 
more  than  a  century  had  elapsed  since  the  death  of  Di- 
ocletian, his  fate  and  history,  his  acts  and  his  character, 
had  been  strangely  distorted  by  tradition ;  and  though 
the  peasantry  had  not  learned  to  look  upon  him  as  a  bad 
man,  or  to  execrate  him  as  a  tyrant,  yet  the  extraordi- 
nary vicissitudes  which  he  had  hewn  out  for  himself, 
the  vague  legends  of  his  acts  during  life,  and  the  mys- 
tery attaching  to  his  death,  surrounded  his  memory  with 
a  fearful  awe,  which  held  the  people  of  the  neighbour- 
hood aloof  from  the  spot  for  which  he  had  shown  such 
peculiar  fondness,  when  night  covered  the  world  with 
her  dim  and  fanciful  shades. 

The  portico  was  vacant ;  happy  sounds  rose  up  from 
the  shore,  where  the  fishermen  were  lingering  beside 
their  boats ;  and  a  merry  laugh,  or  snatches  of  some 
light  song,  were  heard  from  the  neighbouring  village, 


32  ATTILA. 

sinking  into  the  hearts  of  Ildica  and  Theodore  with  the 
power  of  a  charm,  waking  associations  of  sweet  do- 
mestic joy,  dim  and  undefined,  but  thrilhng — potent — 
overpowering.  Oh !  who  can  tell  the  many  magic 
avenues  through  which  all  the  external  things  of  the 
wide  universe  find,  at  some  time  or  other,  means  of 
communicating  with  the  inmost  heart — avenues,  the 
gates  of  which  are  shut  till,  at  some  cabalistic  word  of 
grief,  or  joy,  or  hope,  or  fear,  the}^  suddenly  fly  open, 
and  we  find  in  our  bosom  a  thousand  sweet  and  kindred 
fellowships,  with  things  which  had  never  learned  to 
touch  or  agitate  us  before. 

Glad  and  cheerful,  yet  calm,  were  the  sounds  that 
broke  occasionally  upon  the  listening  ear  of  night ;  ancj, 
grand  and  solemn,  but  still  gentle,  was  the  scene  which 
lay  stretched  beneath  the  risen  moon ;  but  the  sensa- 
tions which  were  in  the  breasts  of  the  two  rendered 
those  sounds  and  sights  a  thousand  fold  sweeter,  a  thou- 
sand fold  more  dear ;  and,  in  return,  the  gay,  distant 
voices,  and  the  calm,  wide,  moonlight  sea,  seemed  to 
draw  forth  and  render  intense,  even  to  overwhelming,  in 
the  souls  of  Theodore  and  Ildica, 

"  Into  the  mighty  vision  passing," 

the  inborn  joy  of  all  the  new  emotions  to  which  that  day 
had  given  life  within  their  hearts.  They  paused  and 
listened  to  the  melody  of  innocent  mirth,  and  paused 
and  gazed  upon  the  bright  world  before  them,  lldica's 
hand  trembled  in  that  of  Theodore,  and  her  heart  beat 
quick ;  but  he  felt  that  she  was  his,  and  that  she  was 
agitated ;  and  with  the  gentleness  of  true  affection, 
though  without  any  definite  plan  for  sparing  her,  he 
took  the  very  means  of  telling  his  first  tale  of  love  so 
as  to  agitate  as  little  as  possible  the  young  and  tender 
being,  all  whose  deepest  feelings  were  given  to  him . 
alone. 

"  Hark!"  he  said,  "  hark,  dear  Ildica!  how  gay  and 
sweet  those  merry  voices  sound !  Some  lover  come 
back  from  wandering  like  me,  tells  the  glad  story  of  his 
journey  done  to  the  ear  of  her  who  has  watched  for  him 
in  absence." 

Ildica  grew  more  calm,  and  raised  her  eyes,  too,  to 
Theodore,  not  without  some  feeling  of  surprise,  so  dif- 
ferent was  his  tone,  so  much  more  manly  were  his 
words  fc^^n  when  they  had  parted.    There  had  been, 


ATTILA.  33 

up  to  that  moment,  one  thing,  perhaps,  wanting  in  her 
love  towards  him — the  conscious  feelhig  of  man's  as- 
cendency: she  had  loved  with  passion  deep,  sincere, 
and  ardent ;  but  she  had  loved  as  a  girl,  and  looked  upon 
him  still  as  the  companion  of  her  early  sports.  His 
words  and  tone — the  words  and  tone  of  one  who  had 
mingled  with,  and  taken  his  place  among  men — put  the 
last  rose  to  the  wreath.  She  felt  that  thenceforth  to 
him  she  could  cling  for  protection — to  him  she  could 
turn  for  guidance  and  direction. 

But  Theodore  went  on.  "  Some  lover,"  he  said,  "  or 
perhaps  some  husband,  Ildica,  returned  from  the  labours 
of  the  day  to  home,  and  happiness,  and  sweet  domestic 
love  !  Oh,  dear  Ildica,  since  I  have  been  away,  often 
have  I,  in  wandering  through  different  provinces,  lodged 
in  the  dwellings  of  traders  in  the  towns,  or  in  the  cot- 
tages of  shepherds  and  labourers  in  the  mountains  and 
the  plains  ;  and  the  most  beautiful,  the  most  blessed 
thing  that  I  have  ever  seen  has  been  found  as  often,  if 
not  oftener,  in  the  hut  of  the  herd,  or  the  house  of  the 
common  merchant,  as  in  the  marble  palaces  of  the 
Caesars,  and  within  the  walls  of  imperial  cities.  Oh, 
that  sweet  domestic  love!  that  blessing — that  bright 
blessing !  which,  like  the  glorious  light  of  the  sun, 
shines  alike  on  eveiy  condition  and  on  every  state, 
cheering,  enlivening,  enlightening,  all  who  shut  it  not 
out  from  their  own  dark  hearts  by  vices  and  by  crimes. 
Hark,  hark !  dear  Ildica,  how  those  gay  voices  seem  to 
chime  to  my  words,  speaking  of  love,  and  joy,  and 
hope  !  Oh,  Ildica,  dear  Ildica  !  may  not  such  things  be 
also  for  you  and  me  ]" 

Ildica  sunk  down  on  the  stone  seat  by  which  they 
had  been  standing,  but  she  left  her  hand  still  in  his,  and 
he  felt  it  tremble.  Nor  did  he  himself  speak  unmoved ; 
for  his  ardent  nature,  and  the  first  breaking  forth  of  those 
dear  and  treasured  thoughts,  shook  his  whole  frame ; 
and  scarcely  daring  to  trust  his  lips  wath  further  words, 
he  placed  himself  by  her  side,  murmuring  only,  "  Dearest 
Ildica!"  She  answered  only  v^^ilh  a  long-drawn,  agi- 
tated sigh ;  and,  gliding  his  arm  round  her  soft  waist,  he 
drew  her  gently  to  his  bosom. 

"Oh,  Theodore,  is  not  this  wrong?"  she  asked,  but 
without  attempting  to  free  herself  from  his  embrace. 

"Wrong,  my  Ildica T  wrong,  my  beloved?"  he  ex- 
claimed ;  "  oh,  no  !    God  forbid  that  I  should  ever  seek 


34  ATTILA. 

to  make  you  do  or  feel  aught  that  is  evil !  No,  no, 
dearest,  my  father's  blessing  will  attend  our  union  ;  he 
has  promised,  he  has  given  it :  our  dear  mother's  conn 
sent  was  spoken  to  him  long  ago  !" 

"  Indeed  !"  cried  Ildica. 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  he  said,  pressing  her  again  closer  to 
his  bosom,  from  which  she  had  partly  raised  herself  as 
she  spoke.  "  Yes,  indeed,  Ildica !  Joyful  did  my 
father's  words  sound  in  my  ear,  as  he  told  me  that,  if  I 
could  win  your  love,  I  might  hope  for  your  hand.  No- 
thing now  is  wanting  to  my  happiness  but  one  dear 
word  from  my  Ildica's  sweet  lips.  Oh,  speak  it,  be- 
loved !  Speak  it ;  and  say  you  will  be  mine."  She 
could  not  find  voice  to  utter  the  deep  feelings  of  her 
heart ;  but  her  cheek  sunk  glowing  upon  his  shoulder, 
and  their  lips  met  in  the  first  dear,  long,  thrilling  kiss  of 
happy  and  acknowledged  love. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE    DISASTER. 

From  a  dream  of  happiness  such  as  mortal  beings 
know  but  once  on  this  side  of  the  grave — a  dream  of 
happiness  in  which  all  the  brightest,  noblest,  most  joy- 
ful feelings  of  the  fresh,  unsullied,  unexhausted  heart 
of  youth  burst  forth,  like  the  streams  of  the  Nile,  from 
a  thousand  beautiful  sources,  Ildica  and  Theodore  woke 
at  length,  and  prepared  to  return  to  the  side  of  her 
mother,  to  make  her  a  sharer  in  their  joy,  and  tell  her 
how  blessed,  how  supremely  blessed  they  felt.  Clinging 
close  together  in  attitudes  of  tenderness,  from  which 
Attic  sculptors  might  have  learned  yet  another  grace, 
they  rose  and  moved  along  the  portico.  They  moved, 
however,  but  slowly,  lingering  still  for  some  fond  word, 
some  affectionate  caress,  or  pausing  in  the  scene,  hal- 
lowed for  ever  in  their  eyes  by  the  first  spoken  words 
of  love,  to  gaze  over  it  again  and  again  between  the 
colossal  pillars  of  the  portico.  Over  that  scene,  how- 
ever, had  by  this  time  come  a  change — one  of  those  sud- 
den, inexphcable  alterations  not  uncommon  in  southern 


ATTilA.  35 

climates.  The  moon,  which  by  this  time  had  wandered 
on  far  enough  to  warn  them  that  the  crowded  moments 
had  flown  quickly  away,  was  still  hanging  over  the 
Adriatic,  and  pouring  forth  that  glorious  flood  of  light 
which  makes  the  stars  all  "veil  their  ineffectual  fires  ;" 
but  the  sky  was  no  longer  without  clouds,  and  catching 
the  light  upon  their  rounded  but  not  fleecy  edges,  the 
large  heavy  masses  of  electric  vapour  swept  slow  over 
the  lower  part  of  the  sky,  between  the  bright  orb  and 
the  islands  that  slept  beneath  her  beams.  Theodore 
and  Ildica  paused  to  mark  them,  as  slowly  contorting 
itself  into  hard  and  struggling  forms,  one  particular  mass 
lay  writhing  upon  the  horizon,  like  some  giant  Titan 
wrestling  with  agony  on  his  bed  of  torture.  At  the 
same  time  the  breeze,  which  was  balmy,  though  calm, 
during  the  evening,  became  oppressively  hot,  with  a 
faint  phosphoric  smell  in  the  air,  and  a  deep  silence 
seemed  to  spread  over  the  whole  world.  The  cigala 
was  still,  the  voices  on  the  shore  had  ceased,  the  merry 
laugh  no  longer  resounded  from  the  open  cottage  door, 
and  the  nightingale,  which  had  prolonged  her  song  after 
all  the  rest  was  silent,  ceased  also,  and  left  a  solemn 
hush  over  the  whole  universe. 

"What  strange  forms  that  cloud  is  taking,"  said 
Theodore,  called  even  from  the  thoughts  of  his  own 
happiness  by  the  sudden  alteration  of  the  scene  :  "  and 
how  quiet  everything  is.  Doubtless,  there  \vill  be  a 
storm  to-night.  Alas  !  for  those  who  are  upon  the 
treacherous  sea." 

"  But  your  father,"  said  Ildica ;  "  he  goes  by  land^ 
Theodore.     Is  it  not  so  V 

"  Not  so,  dearest,"  replied  Theodore  ;  "  he  visits  first 
Antioch,  and  then  proceeds  by  land ;  but  it  is  not  for 
him  I  fear,  as  I  heard  of  his  landing  while  I  was  on  the 
journey  hither ;  but  those  strange  clouds  and  the  heat 
of  the  air  must  surely  augur  thunder  to-night ;  and  I 
saw  a  whole  fleet  of  boats  this  morning  af  Tragurium, 
ready  to  put  to  sea." 

"  It  is  indeed  warm,"  said  Ildica ;  "  I  feel  almost  faint 
with  the  heat.  Had  we  lived  a  few  centuries  ago,  The- 
odore, we  might  have  drawn  evil  auguries  for  ourselves 
and  for  the  fate  of  our  affections  from  those  hnrd  clouds, 
and  the  dull  and  almost  mournful  silence  which  has 
fallen  over  the  world." 

"  Out  upon  auguries,  my  beloved,"  he  replied  ;  "  we 


36  ATTILA. 

hold  a  better  faitli,  and  place  our  trust  in  God,  who  made 
our  hearts  and  Ibnned  us  for  each  other.  We  will  con- 
fide in  him,  my  Ildica;  and  for  those  who  do  so,  signs 
and  portents  are  but  proofs  of  his  power,  which  should 
strengtlicn,  not  shake  our  faith." 

As  lie  spoke  he  turned  to  lead  her  into  the  palace ; 
but  at  that  moment  the  low,  sadhowhng  of  a  dog  broke 
the  stillness  of  the  night ;  and  a  figure,  the  face  of  which 
was  turned  from  the  moonhght,  but  which  Ildica  at  once 
recognised  as  her  mother,  appeared  at  the  end  of  the 
colonnade,  and  advanced  towards  them.  Ildica  and 
Theodore  hastened  to  meet  her,  and  each  took  and 
kissed  one  of  her  fair  hands.  "  Give  us  your  blessing, 
oh  my  mother  !"  said  the  youth  ;  "  we  have  been  very 
happy.  I  have  told  Ildica  how  I  love  her.  I  have  told 
her  what  hopes  my  father  has  given  me ;  and  she  has 
promised  to  share  my  lot  and  make  my  home  joyful." 

"  Bless  you,  my  children,  bless  you  !"  replied  Flavia, 
while  Ildica  hid  her  face  on  her  mother's  bosom,  and 
Theodore  again  pressed  his  lips  upon  her  hand.  "  Ye 
are  young  lovers,  indeed ;  but  still  my  blessing  be  upon 
you ;  and  oh !  may  God  grant  that  in  the  course  of  that 
love  which  is  made  to  render  us  happy,  you  may  be 
more  fortunate  than  the  parents  of  either !  Your  father, 
Theodore,  and  I  have  both  lost  those  we  loved  as  fondly 
as  you  love  one  another ;  but  may  better  fate  be  yours, 
my  children !  may  you  never  lose  each  other ;  but  go 
on  in  the  same  warm  affections  through  a  long  life,  and 
death  scarcely  separate  you,  till  we  all  meet  again  in 
heaven." 

Flavia  raised  her  eyes  towards  the  sky,  and  for  a 
moment  remained  in  silence,  though  her  lips  still  moved. 
The  next  instant,  however,  she  added,  "  I  came  out  to 
seek  you,  not  because  I  thought  you  long  absent,  nor 
because  I  had  any  cause  of  fear  ;  but  I  know  not  how 
or  v/hy  it  is  I  have  a  painful,  apprehensive  anxiety  hangs 
upon  me  to-night,  which  will  not  let  me  rest.  Perhaps 
it  is  the  sultry  heat  of  the  atmosphere  ;  the  air  has 
grown  very  oppressive ;  even  the  animals  seem  to  feel 
it.  Your  sister's  dog,  Theodore,  would  not  rest  in  her 
usual  place  by  my  feet,  but  ran  out  through  the  cur- 
tains ;  and  Aspar  told  me  as  I  passed  that  it  had  fled  to  the 
garden.  How  the  cattle,  too,  are  lowing  in  the  village 
stalls !  Do  you  not  hear  them  ?  Does  the  wind  come 
from  Bratial" 


ATTILA.  37 

"  Nearly,"  replied  Theodore ;  "  but  cast  away  mel- 
ancholy, my  dear  mother.  Oh !  that  Ildica  and  I  could 
give  you  a  share  of  our  happiness  !" 

"  You  do  !  you  do,  dear  youth  !"  replied  Flavia  ;  "  I  do 
share  in  your  happiness  ;  and  this  melancholy  will  pass 
away  again.  Those  who  have  known  much  grief  are 
subject  to  such  thick-coming  fancies  ;  and  the  first  touch 
of  deep  sorrow  brushes  oflf  the  bloom  of  hope,  crushes 
the  firm  confidence  of  the  heart,  and  leaves  shrinking 
apprehension  to  tremble  at  every  breath ;  but  let  us  in ; 
there  is  a  storm  coming  on." 

As  she  spoke  there  was  a  low  melancholy  sound  came 
rushing  over  the  waters  of  the  Adriatic  ;  the  clouds, 
which  had  before  passed  so  slow  and  silently  along, 
seemed  now  agitated  by  some  unknown  cause,  and 
rushed  in  dark  black  volumes  over  the  moon ;  while 
here  and  there,  amid  the  clefts  and  rents  of  their  dark 
canopy,  looked  out  a  calm  bright  star.  But  still  the 
mourning  sound  increased ;  and  the  bending  branches  of 
the  ohves  down  below  told  that  the  breath  of  the  tem- 
pest was  already  felt.  The  next  instant,  ere  the  lovers 
and  Flavia  could  escape  from  the  colonnade,  the  blast 
of  the  hurricane  struck  the  building  and  shook  the  massy 
structure  to  its  foundations.  Behind  the  shelter  of  a 
pillar  the  two  women  escaped ;  but  Theodore,  strong 
and  active  as  he  was,  found  himself  dashed  forward 
against  the  wall  of  the  palace  ;  while  leaves,  and  flowers, 
and  broken  boughs  of  trees  were  whirled  about  in  the 
air,  and  strewed  the  marble  pavement  of  the  portico. 
It  lasted  but  for  a  moment,  however,  dying  away  as  it 
came,  with  a  low  moan  ;  while  a  few  large  drops  of  rain 
followed,  as  if  the  punished  demon  of  the  storm  fulfilled 
his  allotted  task  of  destruction  with  tears  and  with  regret. 

"Flavia!  Ildica!  you  are  not  hurt !"  cried  Theodore, 
springing  towards  them. 

"No  !  no  !"  replied  Flavia;  "  we  are  safe  ;  though  it 
was  a  fearful  gale.  But  let  us  in,  Theodore ;  it  may 
return.     Hark !     Good  God  !  what  is  this  V 

Well  might  she  so  exclaim.  The  wind  had  gone  by; 
even  its  murmur  had  ceased ;  when  suddenly  there  rose 
a  roar  from  the  earth  as  if  ten  thousand  war-chariots 
had  met  in  the  shock  of  battle.  The  lightning  burst 
forth  from  the  clouds,  and  flashed  along  amid  the  innu- 
merable dark  gigantic  pillars  of  the  colonnade,  hghting 
the  whole  of  its  vast  extent  with  the  blue  and  ghastly 

Vol.  I.— D 


38  ATTILA. 

glare ;  the  thunder  rolled  from  the  zenith  to  the  horizon 
with  a  peal  which  would  have  deafened  the  ear  to  the 
loudest  voice.  But  the  hghtning  flashed,  and  the  thun- 
der rolled,  scarcely  seen  or  heard ;  for  below,  around, 
was  a  more  dreadful  visitation  still.  The  earth  shook 
beneath  their  feet ;  the  pavement  rose  and  fell  like  the 
waves  of  the  sea ;  the  enormous  columns  tottered  and 
reeled .;  the  walls  of  massive  stone  bent  to  and  fro ; 
while  the  roar  of  the  earthquake  and  the  echoing  of  the 
thunder  were  rendered  more  terrific  by  the  crash  of 
falhng  building,  and  the  shrieks  both  from  the  interior 
of  the  palace  and  the  more  distant  village,  Theodore 
cast  his  arms  round  Ildica  and  her  mother  ;  and,  stag- 
gering along,  hurried  them  down  the  steps  across  the 
level  in  front  of  the  palace,  and  out  of  danger  of  its 
shaken  walls.  It  was  the  impulse  of  the  moment  which 
made  him  act,  and  Flavia  yield ;  but  she  paused  ere  they 
were  many  steps  from  the  building,  exclaiming,  "  My 
children !  Theodore,  my  children !  Your  sister  and 
Ammian!     I  must  go  back." 

"And  I  will  go  too  !"  said  Ildica,  in  a  voice  so  calm 
that  it  made  her  lover  turn  suddenly  to  gaze  upon  her, 
who  seemed  to  have  lost  the  timid  girl  in  the  first  mo- 
ment of  danger  and  horror. 

"  No,  no  !"  he  exclaimed.  "  Dear  mother,  hear  me  ! 
There  will  be  a  second  shock  doubtless,  but  it  will  be 
some  minutes  ere  it  comes.  Hasten  with  Ildica  beyond 
the  Golden  Gate  and  up  the  side  of  the  hill,  out  of  reach 
of  all  buildings  !  I  will  seek  Ammian  and  Eudochia,  and 
join  you  in  a  moment.  Fly,  fly,  dear  mother  !  I  leave 
in  your  charge  what  I  value  more  than  life.  Save 
her !" 

Flavia  hesitated;  but  that  moment  a  slave  with  a 
torch  rushed  out  into  the  portico  seeking  them,  while 
the  motion  of  the  ground  subsided,  and  all  became  still. 
It  was  the  swift  runner,  Aspar,  who  came  up,  crying, 
"  Fly,  lady!  fly,  dear  mistress  !  the  worst  shock  is  never 
first;  fly  to  the  hills,  fly  !" 

"  Away  with  them,  Aspar,  beyond  the  Golden  Gate," 
cried  Theodore,  breaking  from  them  ;  "  I  will  join  you 
instantly !     Away,  away  !" 

Thus  saying,  he  darted  from  them,  rushed  through 
the  portico,  and  crossed  the  side  avenue,  while  the  wild 
clamour  from  the  principal  street  of  the  palace  echoed 
through  the  long  halls  and  galleries ;  and  the  deep  dark- 


ATTILA.  39 

ness  in  which  that  part  of  the  building  was  plunged  ren- 
dered the  distant  sound  of  wailing  and  of  terror  more 
frightful.  On,  on  he  went,  though  fragments  of  stone 
and  cement  obstructed  his  way,  and  crumbled  under  his 
feet,  showing  that  even  the  first  shock  had  been  severe 
enough  to  shake  that  strong  and  massive  fabric  through 
every  part.  But  Theodore  still  hurried  forward,  till,  at 
length,  in  his  haste,  as  he  passed  the  spot  where  he  and 
Ildica  had  seen  the  slaves  playing  on  the  pavement,  he 
stumbled  over  a  large  soft  body,  and,  stooping  down,  he 
felt  with  horror  beneath  his  touch  the  yet  warm  form 
of  a  man,  with  the  newij^-fallen  capital  of  a  neighbouring 
column  lying  with  crushing  weight  upon  his  loins.  The 
long  hair  floating  on  his  shoulders  showed  Theodore 
that  the  unhappy  being  had  been  a  slave ;  but  still  the 
instinctive  benevolence  of  the  youthful  heart  made  him 
pause  a  moment  to  ascertain  if  life  were  extinct.  He 
spoke,  but  not  a  tone  answered  ;  he  lifted  the  hand,  in 
which  life's  soft  warmth  yet  lingered ;  but  not  even  a 
convulsive  movement  of  the  fingers  told  that  one  spark 
of  the  immortal  fire  still  glowed  in  the  mortal  body. 
All  was  motionless,  insensible,  lifeless ;  and  Theodore 
hurried  on. 

The  gates  of  the  Cyzicene  hall  were  open  ;  the  glare 
of  lights  and  the  sound  of  voices  came  from  within ;  and 
Theodore  instantly  entered,  as  the  shortest  way  to  the 
apartments  occupied  by  Flavia  and  her  household. 
Never,  perhaps,  did  terror  in  all  its  forms  present  itself 
more  awfull)''  than  in  that  grand  and  splendid  chamber. 
There,  as  a  general  point  of  meeting,  had  collected 
eighty  or  ninety  of  the  slaves  and  domestics  of  both 
sexes.  Fear  had  not  yet  had  time  to  subside  ;  and  with 
pale  and  haggard  faces,  livid  lips,  and  wide  anxious  eyes 
they  remained,  some  clinging  to  the  columns  which  had 
so  lately  been  shaken  like  reeds  ;  some  kneeling  in  the 
midst,  and  uttering  the  confused  and  terrified  prayer ; 
some  cast  down  upon  the  pavement  in  utter  self-aban- 
donment ;  some  hiding  their  eyes  in  their  garments,  as 
if  they  could  shut  out  the  approaching  horrors  that  they 
feared  to  witness ;  some  gazing  wildly  up  to  the  roof, 
which  they  expected  momently  to  fall  upon  them. 
Large  fragments  of  the  beautiful  paintings  which  had 
covered  the  walls  were  now  seen  dashed  about  upon 
the  floor ;  and  a  wide  rent  in  the  solid  masonry  over  the 
door  showed  how  insecure  was  the  shelter  which  those 


40  ATTILA. 

terrified  beings  had  sought  from  the  night  of  the  earth- 
quake. 

In  the  midst  stood,  gathered  together  in  the  hour  of 
danger,  three  dusky  Numidians,  with  a  servant  from  the 
neighbouring  Pentopolis,  who,  in  happier  times,  had 
been  too  near  akin  to  the  dark  Africans  to  hve  with 
them  in  amity,  but  who  now  chmg  to  them  for  support ; 
while  a  gigantic  slave  from  the  Porphyry  mountains, 
one  of  the  few  who  looked  the  unusual  dangers  of  the 
night  in  the  face  with  calm  determination,  was  seen  in 
the  front,  crushing  out  under  his  large  foot  a  torch  which 
one  of  his  more  terrified  companions  had  let  fall.  There 
were  two  or  three  others  who  stood  near,  and,  with  arms 
folded  on  their  chests,  and  dark  brows  full  of  stern  reso- 
lution, gazed  towards  the  door,  as  if  waiting  what  hor- 
ror was  to  come  next. 

In  the  hands  of  some  of  the  bolder  slaves  were  the 
torches  which  gave  light  to  the  hall ;  and  the  moment 
Theodore  entered,  one  started  from  the  group,  exclaim- 
ing, in  tones  of  eager — ay,  and  affectionate  inquiry — 
though  they  were  but  slaves,  "  The  Lady  Flavia  ? 
Where  is  the  Lady  Flavia  1  Where  is  the  Lady  Fla- 
via 1" 

He  spoke  as  an  old  servant  might  speak  to  a  boy  he 
had  known  from  infancy  ;  but  Theodore  was  no  longer 
a  boy ;  for  the  last  nine  months  and  the  last  few  hours 
together  had  made  him  a  man  in  mind  as  well  as  in 
body,  and  he  replied  with  that  prompt  tone  of  command- 
ing courage  which  won  instant  obedience. 

"  She  is  safe,"  he  cried,  gazing  round  him.  "  Up,  up, 
all  of  you !  Lie  not  there  in  prostrate  terror,  herding 
together  like  sheep  beneath  the  lightning.  Up,  if  you 
would  save  your  lives  !  Up,  and  away !  You  with  the 
torches  go  before  them  !  Out  beyond  the  Golden  Gate 
you  will  find  your  mistress  and  Aspar.  Keep  close  to 
the  walls  till  you  are  in  the  open  field !  Another  shock 
is  coming,  and  the  parapets  and  capitals  fall  first,  but 
fall  far  out  from  the  buildings.  Crowd  not  together  so, 
and  crush  each  other  in  the  doorway !  Out,  coward ! 
would  you  kill  your  fellows  to  save  your  own  miserable 
life  1  So  !  quietly — but  speedily.  You,  Cremera !  and 
j'^ou,  and  you,  Marton,  come  with  me !  You  are  brave 
and  honest,  and  love  your  lady.  Snatch  up  whatever 
jewels  and  valuable  things  you  see,  and  follow  quick ! 
Where  is  Eudochia  ?    Where  my  brother  Ammian  V 


ATTILA.  41 

"  Her  chamber  is  within  the  Lady  Flavia's !"  said  the 
Arab  Cremera ;  and,  darting  through  the  lesser  doorway, 
Theodore  hastened  thither,  followed  by  the  three  he 
had  called,  and  one  or  two  others,  gathering  up  caskets, 
and  scrinia,  and  gold,  and  jewels,  as  they  hurried  through 
the  more  private  apartments  of  the  palace.  A  sound  of 
murmuring  voices  was  before  him  as  he  cam.e  near 
the  chamber  of  Flavia ;  but,  dashing  aside  the  curtain, 
he  rushed  in. 

Kneeling  upon  the  floor,  as  she  had  risen  from  her^ 
bed  in  terror,  with  her  bright  hair  flowing  in  waving  lines 
over  her  shoulders,  her  hands  clasped,  and  her  eyes 
raised  to  heaven  as  her  lips  trembled  with  prayer,  vyms    ' 
Eudochia ;  while  beside  her,  fainting  with  terror,  lay  the    ;■ 
negro  girl  who  had  sat  beside  the  Hyader,  lately  so  gay   • 
and  thoughtless.     Near  her  stood  Ammian,  whose  first  J 
impulse  had  been  to  seek  her ;  but  in  whose  dark  imagi- 
native eyes,  instead  of  terror,  shone  a  strange  and  al- 
most sportive  fire,  as  if  his  excited  fancy  felt  a  degree 
of  pleasure  even  in  a  scene  so  full  of  danger  and  of  hor- 
ror.    Nevertheless,  he  was  eagerly  entreating  his  fair 
sister,  as  he  called  her,  to  conquer  her  terrors,  and  to 
fly  with  him  to  seek  their  mother,  exclaiming,  "  Come, 
come,  Eudochia,  you  shall  pray  to-morrow — or  to-night, 
if  you  like  it  better,  when  once  you  are  somewhere 
safe.     Your  prayers  will  go  to  heaven  in  but  tattered 
garments,  if  they  have  to  force  their  way  through  yon 
rift  in  the  roof.     Come,  come  !     Oh,  here  is  Theodore ! 
Where  are  my  mother  and  UdicaV 

"  Both  safe  I"  replied  Theodore.  "  But  this  is  no  hour 
for  sport,  Ammian;"  and,  without  question,  he  caught 
up  his  sister  in  his  arms.  "  You  take  the  casket  from 
Cremera,  Ammian !"  he  continued.  "  Let  him  take  yon 
poor  girl!  Hark,  there  is  a  rushing  sound!  Quick, 
quick,  it  is  coming  again !  On  before,  Ammian.  On 
before,  to  the  Golden  Gate !" 

Eudochia  clung  to  his  breast,  and,  hurrying  on  with  a 
step  of  light,  he  bore  her  through  the  many  chambers 
of  the  building,  till,  turning  through  the  great  hall  called 
the  Atrium,  he  entered  one  of  the  transverse  streets,  and 
paused  a  moment  to  hsten  if  the  sound  continued.  All, 
how^ever,  was  still  and  dark,  except  where  the  murmur 
of  voices  and  the  rush  of  feet  were  heard  from  a  distant 
spot,  and  where  a  number  of  torches  appeared  gathered 
together  near  the  beautiful  octagonal  temple  of  Jupiter. 

D  2 


42  ATTILA. 

or  where  from  the  apartments  occupied  by  the  old  and 
incapable  conservator  of  the  palace  were  seen  issuing 
forth  two  or  three  slaves  with  hghts,  and  a  solitary- 
priest  bearing  the  consecrated  vessels  of  the  temple, 
which  had  already  been  converted  to  a  Christian  church. 
Onward,  in  the  same  direction,  Theodore  now  bore 
the  fair  light  form  of  his  sister ;  but  ere  he  had  reached 
the  end  of  the  street,  another  awful  phonomenon  took 
place.  From  the  midst  of  the  intense,  deep,  black  ex- 
i^anse  which  the  sky  now  presented,  burst  forth  an  im- 
mense globe  of  fire,  lighting  with  a  fearful  splendour  the 
gigantic  masses,  columns,  and  towers  of  the  palace; 
sliowing  the  neighbouring  hills  and  woods  beyond  the 
gates,  and  even  displaying  the  heavy  piles  of  mountains 
that  lay  towering  up  towards  the  north.  No  thunder  ac- 
"companied  the  meteor ;  and  its  progress  through  the 
sky  was  only  marked  by  a  sound  as  of  a  strong  but 
equal  wind,  till  suddenly  it  burst  and  dispersed  with  a 
tremendous  crash,  leaving  all  in  deeper  darkness  than 
before. 

The  sight  had  made  the  multitude  pause  and  fall  upon 
their  knees  before  the  church;  and  as  Theodore  ap- 
proached he  heard  a  voice  exclaiming,  "  Let  us  die  here  I 
We  may  as  well  end  our  days  here  as  in  the  open  fields  I 
Let  us  die  here  !" 

'  But,  to  his  surprise,  the  next  moment  the  calm  sweet 
tones  of  the  Lady  Flavia  struck  his  ear,  replying  to  the 
words  which  she  had  heard  too.  "  No,  my  friends  ! 
no !'-  she  said,  in  a  voice  which  had  no  terror  in  its 
sound,  but  was  all  calm  but  energetic  tenderness.  "  No ! 
it  is  our  duty  to  God,  to  ourselves,  to  our  brethren,  to 
our  children,  to  take  the  means  of  safety  which  are  at 
hand.  Let  us  fly  quick  from  among  these  buildings, 
which  another  shock  may  cast  down  to  crush  us.  There 
may  be  dangers  even  beyond  the  walls,  but  here  are 
certain  perils.  Let  us  go  forth ;  I  came  back  but  to 
seek  my  children !  Lo,  they  have  come  in  safety,  and 
let  us  now  depart.  Oh,  delay  not,  pause  not,  for  the 
hesitation  of  terror  more  often  points  the  dart  and  shar- 
pens the  sword  that  slays  us,  than  the  rashness  of  cour- 
age. Come,  my  friends,  let  us  come.  God  will  pro- 
tect us ;  let  us  take  the  means  he  gives.  Come,  my 
Theodore,  come.  Ammian,  you  look  as  your  father 
used  to  look  when  he  went  forth  to  battle.    Should  not 


ATTILA.  43 

such  a  face  as  that  shame  terror,  my  friends  1    Come,  1 
pray  ye,  come  !" 

Even  as  she  spoke,  the  same  hollow  rushing  sound 
was  again  heard ;  the  steps  on  which  she  stood,  above 
the  rest,  shook  beneath  her,  and  Ammian,  seizing  her 
hand,  hurried  forward.  Clouds  of  dust  rose  up  into  the 
air,  shrieks  of  terror  burst  from  the  very  lips  that  had 
so  lately  proposed  to  remain  and  die  there,  and  every 
one  now  rushed  towards  the  gate.  But  their  steps  were 
staggering  and  unequal,  for  the  solid  earth  was  again 
shaken,  the  buildings  and  the  columns  were  seen  tot- 
tering and  bending  by  the  light  of  the  torches,  the  crash 
of  falling  masses  blended  with  the  roar  of  the  earth- 
quake, part  of  the  frieze  of  the  temple  was  dashed  into 
the  midst  of  the  group  of  slaves,  who  were  flying  on 
before  their  mistress,  and  one  among  them  was  struck 
down. 

"  Stop  !"  said  the  voice  of  Flavia ;  "  let  us  not  leave 
any  one  we  can  save.  Hold  the  torch  here  !"  But  it 
was  in  vain.  The  man  was  crushed  like  a  trodden 
worm ! 

"  God  receive  thy  spirit  to  his  mercy,  through  Christ !" 
cried  the  priest ;  and  they  rushed  on,  while  still  the 
earthquake  seemed  to  roll  the  ground  in  waves  beneath 
their  feet,  and  their  eyes  grew  dim  and  dizzy  with  the 
drunken  rocking  of  the  enormous  buildings,  through  the 
midst  of  which  they  passed.  The  gate,  though  not  far, 
seemed  to  take  an  age  to  reach,  and  joyful  was  the 
heart  of  every  one  as  they  drew  near.  But  just  as  they 
were  about  to  go  forth,  the  struggling  of  the  feverish 
earth  appeared  to  reach  its  height ;  and  one  of  those 
colossal  flanking  towers,  which  seemed  destined  to 
outlast  a  thousand  generations,  swayed  to  and  fro  like 
a  young  heart  sorely  tempted  between  virtue  and  crime, 
and  then  fell  overthrown,  with  a  sound  like  thunder  across 
the  very  path  of  the  fugitives.  It  left  a  chasm  where 
it  had  stood,  however  ;  and  through  that  rugged  breach 
the  terrified  multitude  took  their  way,  stumbling  and 
falling  over  the  convulsed  and  quivering  masses  of  stone. 

Glad,  glad  were  all  bosoms  when  those  walls  were 
passed  ;  and  though  still  the  ground  heaved  beneath 
their  feet,  though  the  roar  continued,  and  the  very  trees 
were  heard  to  crack  and  shiver  as  they  passed  along, 
yet  all  felt  that  some  hope  of  safety  was  gained ;  though 
v/hen  they  looked  around,  and  saw  the  black  and  tan- 


44  ATTILA. 

gible  darkness  that  covered  the  whole  earth,  and  hid 
every  object  except  that  on  which  the  occasional  torch- 
light fell — when  they  gazed,  I  say,  into  that  dull  and 
vacant,  unreplying  blank,  and  lieard  the  hollow  roaring 
voice  of  the  earthquake  around,  below,  above,  well 
might  their  hearts  still  sink,  and  well  might  many  a  one 
among  them  think  that  the  predicted  day  of  general 
dissolution  had  at  length  arrived. 

Still  carrying  his  sister  in  his  arms,  Theodore  had 
followed  Flavia  and  Ammian  through  the  broken  walls ; 
and  it  was  not  till  their  feet  trod  the  more  secure  ground 
beyond  that  he  asked,  "Where  is  Ildica,  my  mother?" 
"  Here  at  hand,  upon  the  hill,  my  noble  Theodore," 
she  answered.  "  Eudochia  now  is  safe,"  she  added ; 
"  leave  her  with  me,  and  give  our  dear  Ildica  tidings  oi 
our  escape,  for  she  promised  not  to  quit  the  spot  where 
I  left  her  till  my  return.  Yon  faint  spot  of  light  upon 
the  old  tumulus — that  is  Aspar's  torch." 

Theodore  placed  his  sister  on  her  feet  beside  Flavia, 
and  hurried  on.  He  had  no  light  with  him  ;  the  heavens 
and  the  earth  were  all  in  darkness,  and  the  roar  of  the 
last  shock  still  rang,  though  more  faintly,  in  the  air. 
Yet,  ere  he  had  arrived  within  the  feeble  and  indistinct 
glare  of  the  slave's  torch,  the  quickened  ear  of  love  and 
apprehension  had  caught  the  sound,  and  recognised  the 
tread  of  his  coming  feet ;  and  in  a  moment  Ildica  was 
in  his  arms,  and  her  fair  face  buried  on  his  throbbing 
bosom.* 

*  In  "  The  Story  of  Azimantium,"  which  I  published  about  six 
years  ago  in  Blackwood's  Magazine,  and  which  has  since  been  re- 
published in  "  The  Desultory  Man,"  I  gave  very  nearly  the  same 
account  of  this  great  earthquake  with  that  here  given.  The  actors 
and  the  scene  are  different ;  but  the  principal  facts,  being  founded 
on  historical  truth,  are  the  same. 


ATTILA.  45 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE    EVIL    TIDINGS. 

The  horrors  of  that  night  had  not  yet  ended ;  for  from 
the  third  hour  after  sunset  till  day  had  fully  dawned, 
the  fever  of  the  earth  raged  with  unabated  fury.  A 
melancholy  and  a  ghastly  group  was  it  that  soon  crowned 
the  hill  where  Flavia  had  left  her  daughter,  when  at 
length  all  those  who  had  escaped  with  her  from  the 
palace  were  collected  together  round  the  torches.  Not 
one  half  of  those,  indeed,  who  dwelt  in  that  magnificent 
building,  to  which  the  earthquake  gave  the  first  severe 
blow,  had  assembled  in  the  train  of  the  Roman  lady ; 
but  during  the  pause  of  nearly  an  hour  which  succeeded 
the  second  shock,  many  pale  and  terrified  beings,  some 
wounded  and  bruised  with  the  falling  masses,  some 
nearly  deprived  of  reason  by  their  fears,  wandered  up 
from  the  palace  and  the  neighbouring  village,  guided  by 
the  lights  upon  the  hill,  and  with  wild  exclamations  and 
bemoanings  of  their  fate  added  something  to  the  horrors 
of  the  moment. 

Gradually  the  brief-spoken  or  almost  silent  awe  sub- 
sided during  that  long  interval  of  calm  ;  and  many  who 
had  been  waiting  with  sinking  hearts  for  the  coming  of 
a  third  shock  began  to  talk  together  in  low  whispers, 
and  even  to  fancy  that  the  hour  of  peril  had  passed  by. 
Gradually,  too,  serving  to  encourage  such  thoughts,  the 
clouds  rolled  away ;  the  stars  looked  out  calm  and 
bright,  and  the  moon  was  seen  just  sinking  into  the 
Adriatic,  but  with  a  red  and  angry  glow  over  her  face, 
in  general  so  calm  and  mild.  Hope  began  to  waken 
once  again  in  all  bosoms ;  and  one,  more  rash  than  the 
rest,  a  fisherman  from  Aspalathus,  ventured  down  the 
hill,  declaring  that  he  would  go  and  see  what  had  be- 
fallen his  boat. 

The  minutes  seemed  hours  ;  but  very  few  had  elapsed 
after  his  departure,  ere  the  fierce  rushing  sound  of  the 
destroyer  was  again  heard  ;  again  the  earth  reeled  and 
shook,  and  yawned  and  heaved  up,  and  burst  like  bub- 
bles from  a  seething  caldron;  and  lightning,  without  a 


46  ATTILA. 

cloud,  played  round  the  hills  and  over  the  waves.  The 
terrified  multitude  clung  together,  and  the  sick  faintness 
of  despair  seemed  to  defy  all  augmentation,  when  the 
voice  of  the  fisherman  was  heard,  exclaiming,  as  he 
hastened  back  up  the  hill,  "  Fly  farther,  to  the  moun- 
tains!  tly  farther  up!  the  sea  is  rising  over  the  land; 
the  boats  are  driven  into  the  market-place  ;  the  palace 
will  soon  be  covered!  Fly  farther,  and  fly  quickly,  if 
you  would  save  your  lives  !" 

"  Why  should  we  fly  V  cried  the  same  voice  which 
had  before  urged  the  multitude  to  stay  and  await  death 
below  ;  and  at  the  same  time  a  tall,  gaunt  man,  with  long 
streaming  gray  hair,  and  large,  wild,  melancholy  eyes, 
pushed  himself  forward  into  the  torchlight.  "  Why 
should  we  fly  ]"  he  cried;  "  and  whither  can  we  go  to 
hide  us  from  the  wrath  of  God  ]  Lo,  I  tell  you,  and  it 
shall  come  to  pass,  that  no  sun  shall  ever  rise  again 
upon  this  earth,  except  the  Sun  of  Righteousness.  The 
last  day,  the  last  great  day,  is  at  hand,  and  in  vain  ye 
say  to  the  mountains,  '  Fall  upon  us;  and  to  the  hills, 
Cover  us,  in  the  great  and  terrible  day  of  the  Lord.' 
Make  ready  your  hearts,  and  prepare  your  souls,  for 
verily  ye  are  called  to  judgment,  and  the  Son  of  Man 
is  coming,  in  clouds  and  glory,  to  separate  the  sheep 
from  the  goats." 

His  words,  his  solemn  gestures,  his  wild  and  enthusi- 
astic look,  supported  by  his  reputed  sanctity  of  life, 
plunged  the  people  in  deeper  despair ;  but  Flavia  again 
interposed,  and  with  sweet  and  gentle,  yet  dignified  and 
commanding  eloquence,  she  won  the  people  to  hear,  to 
yield,  and  to  obey  her.  Lighted  by  a  single  torch,  for 
those  they  had  brought  had  burnt  so  far  that  it  became 
necessary  to  spare  them,  the  melancholy  procession 
wound  up  the  road  which  led  over  the  mountains  to- 
wards Titurum.  After  travelling  for  at  least  a  mile, 
with  a  continual  ascent,  they  again  paused ;  and  in  order 
both  to  give  new  courage  to  the  sinking  hearts  of  those 
who  accompanied  her,  and  to  prevent  the  enthusiast 
Mizetus  from  adding  to  their  terrors,  the  lady  besought 
the  good  priests  of  the  palace  church  to  guide  them  in 
praying  to  the  Almighty  in  their  hour  of  peril. 

The  old  man  had  not  spoken  since  they  left  the 
city ;  but  the  mild  words  of  the  Roman  lady  seemed  to 
wake  him  from  the  stupor  of  anguish  and  terror  into 
which  he  had  fallen.    Called  upon  to  find  words  of  con- 


ATTILA.  47 

solation  for  the  flock  committed  to  his  charge,  he  applied 
them  first  to  his  own  heart,  and  instantly  remembering 
the  hopes  and  promises  of  a  pure  and  exalted  faith,  he 
broke  forth  in  a  strain  of  powerful  eloquence,  now  di- 
recting the  people  to  put  their  trust  in  that  Almighty- 
arm  which  can  save  in  the  time  of  the  most  awful  dan- 
ger ;  now  raising  his  voice  in  prayer  to  God,  mingling 
adoration  with  petition,  and  offering  at  once  the  sacri- 
fice of  faith  and  suplication. 

The  people  gathered  round,  slaves  and  freemen  to- 
gether, lifting  their  pale  faces  and  anxious  eyes  by  the 
.  dull  torchlight  to  the  countenance  of  the  priest.  They 
gained  confidence  and  courage,  however,  at  his  words ; 
and  when  he  began  his  prayer,  they  kneeled  around  upon 
the  still  shaking  earth,  and  rose  again  with  hearts  full 
of  trust,  calmed  and  strengthened  by  devotion.  None 
had  stood  aloof,  not  even  those  who  had  hitherto  re- 
mained firm  to  their  ancient  idolatry.  In  that  hour  of 
horror,  they  felt  the  need  of  some  higher  hope  and  more 
abiding  tnist,  and  they  kneeled  with  the  rest  to  that 
more  mighty  God  whom  hitherto  they  had  not  known. 

Ere  they  rose,  a  light  and  gi'ateful  wind  sprang  up 
from  the  mountains  ;  and  with  hope  once  more  awa- 
kened, in  a  still  dark  and  superstitious  age,  even  so 
slight  a  change  as  that  was  received  as  a  favourable 
presage.  Many  there  were  who  regarded  it  as  a  sign 
that  their  prayers  vv^ere  heard  ;  and  when  at  length  the 
calm  gray  dawn  began  to  look  from  the  eastern  hills 
upon  the  wearied  and  anxious  groups  below,  though  the 
earth  still  shook,  from  time  to  time,  with  a  convulsive 
shudder,  the  sight  of  the  blessed  light  of  returning  day 
seemed  to  take  the  worst  apprehension  from  their  over- 
loaded hearts,  and  many  an  eye  shed  tears  of  joy  to  see 
again  those  rays  which  they  had  feared  were  obscured 
for  ever. 

Rashness  generally  follows  terror  allayed ;  and 
scarcely  had  the  sun  fully  risen,  when  numbers,  anxious 
for  friends  whom  they  saw  not — or,  perhaps,  with  more 
'  sordid  motives — began  to  hasten  away  towards  the  village 
and  the  palace.  But  the  earth  still  shook,  and  Flavia, 
with  her  family  and  servants,  still  remained  upon  the  hill, 
after  striving  anxiously  to  persuade  the  rest  to  wait  till 
all  was  again  completely  still.  Her  reasoning  was  in 
vain,  however,  and  troop  after  troop  went  off;  but 
scarcely  was  the  day  an  hour  old,  when  another  severe 


48  ATTILA. 

shock  was  felt,  and  many  who  had  escaped  the  dangers 
of  that  fearful  night  were  crushed  or  mamied  in  the 
ruins  of  the  dwellings  to  which  they  had  returned. 
That  shock  was  the  last,  as  it  was  the  longest,  which 
was  felt;  and  when  it  subsided,  all  remained  quiet ;  and 
though  the  ground  was  seen  yawning  in  various  places, 
though  parts  even  of  the  mountains  had  slipped  from 
their  places,  and  rocks  lay  overthrown  in  the  valleys  ; 
though  the  courses  of  the  streams  had  been  altered,  and 
the  whole  face  of  the  land  was  changed,  yet  it  soon 
became  evident  that  the  earthquake  was  over,  and 
mourning  was  all  that  remained — mourning  unmingled 
with  fear. 

There  was  mourning  in  the  hearts  of  all ;  and  yet  how 
many  a  glad  embrace,  how  many  a  tender  and  affec- 
tionate caress,  how  many  a  prayer  and  thanksgiving, 
expressed  the  gratitude,  the  joy,  the  love,  which  filled 
the  bosoms  of  Flavia  and  her  family.  How  many  an 
earnest  and  a  wistful  glance  at  the  faces  of  each  other 
told  that,  in  the  anguish  of  that  long  horrible  night,  sel- 
fish fear  had  been  superseded  by  apprehensions  of  a  , 
nobler  kind !  | 

Bright  and  beautiful,  calm  and  serene  the  day  rose 
up  over  that  scene  of  desolation  and  ruin,  smiling  as  if 
to  give  comfort  and  consolation  to  the  smitten  earth ; 
but  still  Flavia  lingered  on  the  hills,  unwilhng  to  trust 
her  children  or  her  domestics  amid  the  ruins  of  the  pal- 
ace till  she  should  be  well  assured  that  safety  might  be 
found  within  its  walls.  As  the  sun  grew  hot,  however, 
she  removed  to  the  edge  of  a  small  wood  of  tall  ilexes  i 
which  hung  upon  the  edge  of  the  mountain  road,  though 
many  of  the  finest  trees  had  been  uprooted  and  thrown 
down  either  by  the  wind  or  the  earthquake  ;  and  having 
placed  herself  beneath  the  shade,  Avith  her  children 
round  her,  several  of  the  slaves  ran  hither  and  thither, 
to  seek  some  food  whereof  to  offer  their  well-loved  mis- 
tress the  morning's  meal.  Each  returned  with  some- 
thing ;  but  each  had  some  sad  tale  to  tell  of  the  ravages 
that  were  to  be  traced  in  the  direction  in  which  he  had 
gone.  Milk,  and  wine,  and  early  fruits  had  been  found 
in  abundance  among  the  various  cottages  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, and  a  meal,  plentiful,  but  simple  as  that  of 
the  night  before,  was  spread  upon  the  grass  beneath  the 
trees. 

The  earth  was  still,  the  air  was  fresh  and  sweet,  and 


I 


ATTILA.  49 

the  birds  had  begun  again  their  melody,  forgetting  in 
song,  Hke  the  happy  heart  of  youth,  the  blow  of  calam- 
ity as  soon  as  it  had  passed  away.  All  tended  to  sooth 
and  to  reassure  ;  and  the  heart  of  Ammian,  which,  even 
during  the  terrible  scenes  of  the  past  night,  had  not  lost 
its  bold  and  fearless  daring,  now  broke  out  in  hght  and 
wild  fancies.  He  w^ould  know  the  causes  of  the  earth- 
quake ;  and  when  he  found  that  neither  his  mother  nor 
Theodore  could  give  a  satisfactory  reply  to  all  his  many 
questions — as  who  in  that  age  could  have  furnished  any 
on  such  a  theme  1 — he  let  his  imagination  run  wild  in 
conjectures ;  and  many  a  bright  poetical  theory  he 
formed,  and  many  a  wild  and  baseless  hypothesis  he 
raised,  sporting  with  all  the  dread  images  of  the  past 
like  a  child  playing  with  the  weapons  of  deadly  strife 
gathered  from  a  field  of  battle. 

Then  he  urged  his  mother  to  return  quickly  to  the 
palace,  in  order,  as  he  said,  to  see  what  old  Ocean  had 
been  doing  there  during  their  absence.  With  Theodore, 
Flavia  held  more  rational  intercourse,  taking  counsel 
with  him  as  to  what  course  she  had  to  pursue,  and  ex- 
pressing an  apprehension  lest  the  palace,  left  totally  un- 
guarded, might  be  plundered  during  her  absence  and 
that  of  the  old  imperial  conservator,  who  remained  with 
them,  his  senses  still  bewildered  with  all  the  terrors  he 
had  gone  through.  Theodore,  however,  showed  her 
that  the  faithful  slaves  who  had  followed  him  through 
the  building  had  brought  away  all  the  valuable  jewels, 
caskets,  and  gold  which  they  had  found;  and  for  the 
rest,  he  offered  to  return  himself,  with  the  conservator 
and  some  of  the  slaves,  and  provide  for  the  preserva- 
tion of  the  palace  and  all  that  it  contained. 

"  Go  you  with  the  rest  to  Salona,  dearest  mother," 
he  said ;  "  some  dwellings  must  there  have  been  pre- 
served ;  and  among  the  merchants  and  traders  which  it 
contains  you  will  always  find  shelter  and  assistance  for 
gold.  Shaken  as  the  palace  has  been,  many  parts  may 
yet  be  standing  which  will  soon  fall,  and  your  presence 
would  only  be  dangerous,  and  embarrass  us  in  ascer- 
taining the  state  of  the  building.  I  will  accompany  you 
part  of  the  way  to  Salona,  and  then  turn  round  by  the 
heathen  cemetery  towards  Aspalathus  and  the  palace." 

Ildica  listened,  and  her  look  seemed  to  say  that  she 
would  fain  accompany  him ;  for  hers  was  one  of  those 
hearts  which  would  rather,  far  rather,  take  part  in  the 
Vol.  I.— E 


4 
50  ATTILA. 

danger  and  tlic  grief  of  those  they  love  than  share  even 
their  happiest  hours.  But  she  said  nothing;  for  she 
knew  that  her  wishes  ought  not  to  be  granted,  and  she 
would  neither  put  her  mother  nor  her  lover  to  the  pain 
of  (>pi)()sing  her  even  by  a  word. 

Kudochia,  liowever,  in  the  inconsiderate  apprehensive- 
ncss  of  girlhood,  clung  to  her  brother,  and  besought  him 
not  to  go  ;  but  Theodore  soon  pacified  her,  assuring  her 
that  he"would  not  venture  rashly  where  danger  was  ap- 
parent; and,  after  a  few  more  words,  orders  were  given 
to  the  domestics,  and  Flavia  rose  to  proceed  towards 
Salona.  Weariness,  indeed,  was  in  all  limbs  ;  and  with 
slow  and  heavy  steps,  those  who  had  remained  with 
Flavia  on  the  uplands  took  their  way  along  a  road, 
which  wound  for  some  distance  over  the  ridge  of  hills 
nearest  to  the  sea,  and  then  descended,  separating  into 
two  branches,  the  one  leading  to  the  town  of  Salona, 
the  other  to  Aspalathus  and  the  neighbouring  palace. 
The  latter  branch,  with  a  steep  declivity,  wound  down 
the  hill,  bordered  on  either  hand  by  a  long  row  of  tall 
dark  cypresses,  which  reached  from  the  northern  gate 
of  the  palace  to  a  cemetery  on  the  side  of  the  hill.  In 
that  burial-ground,  surrounded  by  a  low  wall  not  two 
feet  high — thus  built  that  all  who  passed  might  gaze 
upon  the  records  of  mortality  within — lay  crowded  a 
multitude  of  tombs,  checkered  with  groups  of  dull  fune- 
real trees.  There  reposed  the  remains  of  all  who  had 
died  in  the  vicinity  since  Dalmatia  had  become  a  Ro- 
man province,  and  the  frequent  Siste,  viator !  called  the 
eye,  and  recorded  the  vain  attempt  to  teach  mankind 
wisdom  and  moderation  from  the  common  lot  of  all. 

It  was  near  this  burial-place,  just  where  the  roads 
parted,  that  Theodore  paused,  and,  after  a  few  minutes' 
conference  with  the  old  officer  of  the  palace,  selected 
several  of  the  slaves  to  accompany  him  on  his  way. 
But  just  as  he  was  about  to  depart,  the  eye  of  Ildica 
rested  upon  a  cloud  of  dust  that  rose  from  the  point 
where  the  road  towards  Salona  became  first  visible, 
emerging  from  a  thick  grove  at  the  distance  of  perhaps 
half  a  mile  from  the  spot  where  they  then  stood. 

"  Look  !  look  !"  she  said ;  "  here  are  people  coming 
up  from  the  city — perhaps  to  give  us  assistance  ;  and  I 
trust  they  may  bring  a  chariot  or  a  htter,  for  my  mother 
is  pale  and  weary,  and  Eudochia  is  faint  also." 

"  And  you  are  weary,  too,  my  Ildica !"  said  her  moth- 


ATTILA.  51 

er.  "  But  look  !  Theodore,  look !  Do  you  not  see  ar- 
mour and  helmets  glittering  through  the  dust  in  the  sunT 
It  seems  a  turma  of  cavalry  or  more,  for  the  line  is  long. 
Stay  with  us,  my  dear  son,  till  we  see  what  we  have 
here  :  let  us  turn  into  this  field  opposite  the  cemetery 
while  they  pass  by." 

Her  words  were  instantly  obeyed  as  commands  ;  and, 
winding  on  with  a  slow  equal  march,  a  small  body  of 
horse,  followed  by  a  number  of  stragglers  on  foot,  as- 
cended the  hill,  and  then,  without  pause  or  question, 
took  the  way  on  towards  Aspalathus.  In  a  moment 
after,  however,  at  a  quicker  pace,  as  if  to  overtake  them, 
and  followed  by  a  number  of  soldiers  and  attendants, 
came  a  superior  person,  who  paused  on  seeing  the  group 
seated  in  the  neighbouring  meadow,  and  sent  a  mes- 
senger to  ask  if  much  mischief  had  occurred  at  the 
palace  in  consequence  of  the  earthquake,  and  whether 
the  Lady  Flavia  were  safe. 

"  She  is  well,  and  present,"  replied  Flavia  to  the  mes- 
senger :  "  who  is  it  that  sends "?" 

"  The  military  tribune,  Marcian,"  replied  the  attend- 
ant, and  Theodore  instantly  sprang  up,  exclaiming,  "  My 
father's  dear  and  noble  friend  !"  and  without  other  com- 
ment he  ran  down  the  field.  As  soon  as  the  tribune 
beheld  him  he  leaped  from  his  horse  and  pressed  him 
in  his  arms,  and  after  a  few  brief  words  gave  some 
orders  to  his  attendants,  and  advanced  with  Theodore 
to  the  spot  where  Flavia  sat. 

He  was  a  man  already  in  the  middle  stage  of  life, 
tall  and  powerful  in  frame,  and  of  mild,  but  firm  and 
serious  countenance.  He  was  not,  perhaps,  what  would 
generally  be  reputed  handsome,  but  his  features  were 
good  ;  and  there  was  the  fire  of  genius  in  his  large  dark 
eye,  the  consciousness  of  energy  on  his  broad  square 
brow.  Dignity  was  in  his  aspect  and  his  whole  de- 
meanour ;  and,  as  he  saluted  the  Lady  Flavia,  lamented 
with  her  the  events  of  the  preceding  night,  and  inquired 
in  tones  of  deep  interest  into  all  the  perils  through 
which  she  and  lier  family  had  passed,  there  was  that 
calm  and  graceful  suavity  in  his  deportment  which  in- 
expressibly won  and  struck  every  one  who  listened. 
Nevertheless,  there  was  a  cloud,  as  if  of  some  deep 
melancholy,  hung  upon  his  brow  ;  and  when  Flavia  in- 
formed him  of  her  purpose  of  proceeding  to  Salona,  he 
shook  his  head  mournfully,  saying,  "  You  had  better 


52  ATTILA. 

not,  lady !  I  tliink  you  had  better  not !  It  is  a  melan- 
choly place,"  he  added,  a  moment  after ;  "  much  shaken 
and  ruined,  and  a  great  number  of  people  have  lost 
their  hves  there.  1  fear  that  accounts  from  other  parts 
of  the  empire  will  be  sad  indeed." 

There  was  something  gloomy  and  thoughtful  in  the 
manner  of  the  tribune  that  surprised  and  somewhat 
alarmed  the  Roman  lady ;  for  so  much  habitual  self- 
command  had  the  soldiers  of  the  empire,  that  it  was 
rare  to  see  any  one,  especially  of  such  rank  and  re- 
nown as  Marcian,  display  upon  the  occasion  of  any  mis- 
fortune like  the  earthquake,  the  natural  feelings  which 
were  not  the  less  busy  at  their  hearts.  The  marble 
exterior  of  the  old  republicans  was  much  affected  by  all 
who  sought  to  distinguish  themselves  in  the  Roman 
armies ;  and  Marcian  was  famed  for  a  temperate  but 
unyielding  firmness,  which  admitted  not  the  semblance 
of  grief  or  apprehension. 

"Think  you,  then,"  she  asked,  "that  we  had  better 
return  to  the  palace  1  A  report  reached  us  in  the  night 
that  the  sea  had  nearly  covered  it." 

Marcian  paused  for  several  minutes,  as  if  meditating 
what  were  best  to  do,  and  then  replied,  "  Lady,  I  will 
send  to  see  the  condition  of  the  palace,  and  in  the  mean 
time  bid  them  pitch  me  a  tent  here  to  give  you  a  shelter 
from  the  sun.  We  have  provisions  with  us  too,  and 
can  offer  you  a  meal,  such  as,  perhaps,  this  great  dis- 
aster may  not  have  left  at  Aspalathus." 

"  I  thank  you,"  replied  Flavia  ;  "  we  have  already 
eaten.  We  found  no  want  of  food  among  the  cottages 
upon  the  hills." 

But  Marcian  pressed  upon  them  his  hospitality  so 
earnestly,  that  Flavia  yielded,  feeling  that  there  was 
something  more  beneath  his  grave  and  thoughtful  air 
than  he  suffered  at  first  to  appear ;  and  while  the  tent 
was  being  raised  by  his  attendants,  he  sent  a  messenger 
to  the  palace,  with  orders  for  such  minute  examination 
as  showed  that  the  day  would  be  high  ere  he  could  re- 
turn. Food  already  dressed  was  soon  spread  out  under 
the  tent ;  and  one  or  two  vessels  of  wine  were  produced, 
with  several  rich  cups  and  vases,  carved  with  the  ex- 
quisite workmanship  of  an  earlier  age,  and  shining  with 
many  a  precious  stone.  With  grave  suavity  the  tribune 
did  the  honours  of  the  meal,  and  spoke  much,  and  of 
many  things,  but  with  a  wandering  and  discursive  spirit, 


ATTILA.  53 

as  if  his  mind  was  forcing  itself  to  the  task,  and  seek- 
ing more  largely  the  aid  of  imagination  than  might  have 
been  the  case  had  the  heart  been  itself  at  ease. 

"  How  magnificent  are  those  cypresses !"  he  said, 
looking  towards  the  long  avenue  which  led  down  the 
hill ;  "  I  never  beheld  finer,  except,  perhaps,  some  that 
grow  on  the  hill  above  Byzantium.  But  those  stand 
solitary,  as  if  to  mark  the  tomb  of  some  warrior  who 
has  died  afar  from  his  own  land ;  these  sweep  down  in 
a  long  row,  like  a  line  of  departed  monarchs  seen  in  the 
shady  grandeur  of  tradition.  There  they  stood,  cen- 
turies before  Diocletian  laid  the  first  stone  of  his  palace  ; 
there  they  stand  now,  when  his  history  is  almost  for- 
gotten ;  there  they  will  stand,  when  we  are  as  he  is. 
Well  are  they  placed  between  the  palace  and  the  sepul- 
chre— those  witnesses  of  the  mortality  of  ages.  The 
common  lot  of  man !  why  should  any  one  shrink  from 
the  common  lot  of  man  ]  Why  should  we  look  with 
hope  to  this  world's  future,  or  turn  back  our  eyes  vvith 
lingering  grief  to  the  past,  or  nurse  bright  hopes  of  such 
young  beings  as  these,"  and  he  laid  his  hand  upon  the 
head  of  Ammian,  "  or  mourn  with  bitter  regret  for  those 
who  have  changed  the  thorny  couch  of  mortal  life  for 
the  calm  bed  of  the  tomb !     Give  me  a  cup  of  wine  !" 

"A  prodigy!  a  prodigy!"  cried  one  of  the  slaves, 
running  into  the  tent ;  "  an  omen !  an  omen  !  Tribune, 
tlie  eagle,  which  has  hovered  over  us  all  the  way  from 
Salona,  has  settled  on  the  pole  of  the  tent !" 

"  Get  ye  gone  !"  replied  Marcian  ;  "  what  have  I  to  do 
with  omens  1  I  may  have  the  heart  without  the  wings 
of  the  eagle.  Out  upon  ambition  !  and  yet  this  very 
Diocletian,  who  founded  the  palace  hard  by,  was  a  slave 
before  he  was  an  emperor.  But  he  loathed,  resigned, 
and  refused  to  resume  the  power  which  he  had  acquired 
and  proved.  That  eagle  haunts  me  :  twice  has  it  hov- 
ered for  hours  over  me  while  sleeping  in  the  open  field, 
and  now  it  settles  on  my  tent.  These  are  strange  ac- 
cidents, and  yet  nothing  more  than  accidents.  Who 
should  dream  of  ambition  with  those  tombs  before  his 
eyes  T     Give  me  some  wine  !" 

The  attendant  who  stood  near  handed  the  goblet, 
which  he  had  held  ready  filled  for  some  minutes,  to  his 
master ;  and  Marcian,*  yet  but  half  a  Christian,  turned 

*  He  was  at  this  time  probably  an  Arian ;  but  there  is  reason  to 

£3 


54  ATTILA. 

and  poured  some  of  the  wine  upon  the  ground.  "To 
the  dead !"  he  said,  looking  mournfully  round  him  ;  "  to 
the  dead !"  and  his  eyes  fixed  full  and  sadly  upon  The- 
odore. 

The  youth  started  suddenly  on  his  feet,  and  grasped 
the  tribune's  hand,  exclaiming,  "  My  father !  I  adjure  thee 
tell  me  !     What  of  my  father !" 

Marcian  threw  his  arms  round  the  slighter  form  of 
his  young  friend,  speaking  some  words  in  a  low  tone. 
Flavia  rose  and  gazed  eagerly  in  the  face  of  the  tribune, 
who  shook  his  head  mournfully  as  his  reply ;  and  Theo- 
dore hid  his  face  in  his  mantle,  while  Eudochia  burst 
into  wild  and  weeping  lamentations.  Ildica's  dark  eyes 
overflowed  in  silence ;  and  though  Flavia  let  not  one 
drop  roll  over  the  jetty  fringes  of  her  eyehds,  her  pale 
cheek  grew  paler,  and  her  lip  quivered  with  intense 
emotion.  Marcian  said  no  more,  but  gazed  down 
sternly  upon  the  hilt  of  his  sword  ;  and  the  only  words 
that  were  uttered  for  some  time  were,  "  Alas,  Pauli- 
nus  !"  which  broke  from  the  lip  of  Ammian. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  DEPARTURE. 

It  was  a  long  and  dreary  pause ;  but  at  length  the 
stern  and  virtuous  soldier,  who,  ere  many  more  years 
had  passed,  seated  himself  without  crime  or  bloodshed 
in  the  chair  of  the  Caesars,  laid  his  hand  upon  the  arm 
of  Theodore  with  a  firm  but  kindly  pressure,  which 
spoke  at  once  to  a  heart  full  of  high  feelings  and  of 
noble  energies,  and  roused  it  from  the  dull  stupor  of 
sudden  grief. 

"  Oh,  Marcian,"  exclaimed  the  youth,  "  this  is  an  un- 
expected stroke !  So  short  awhile  since  I  saw  him  de- 
part full  of  vigour,  and  life,  and  happiness.  So  short, 
so  common  a  journey — so  easy — so  safe  !  How,  tell 
me  how  this  has  befallen  1    Was  it  by  sickness,  or  acci- 

believe  that  his  family  had  long  held  their  ancient  religion  against 
all  the  decrees  of  the  Christian  emperors. 


ATTILA.  65 

dent,  or  war  with  some  rebel,  or  in  the  chase  of  some 
wild  beast  V 

"Alas,  no!"  replied  Marcian ;  "it  was  by  none  of  these, 
my  son.  Nor  would  I  wound  your  young  heart  afresh 
by  telling  how  it  did  take  place,  were  it  not  absolutely 
necessary  for  you  to  know  your  father's  fate,  in  order 
that  you  may  gain  an  augury  or  a  warning  of  your  own, 
and  timely  prevent  it." 

"  The  emperor,"  cried  Flavia,  "  the  emperor  has  de- 
stroyed his  faithful  friend :  Paulinus  saw  it  before  he 
went.  Every  line  of  his  last  letter  breathes  the  antici- 
pation of  his  coming  fate.  He  saw  it  in  the  gloomy 
brow  of  Theodosius  ;  he  saw  it  in  the  smile  of  Chrysa- 
pheus  ;  he  felt  that  he  was  going,  never  to  return.  Say, 
tribune,  say  !  was  it  not  the  emperor's  deed  ?" 

"  Even  so  !"  replied  Marcian.  "  By  the  order  of  him 
whom  he  had  served  with  unequalled  fidelity  and  truth — 
the  friend  of  his  schoolboy  hours,  the  companion  of  his 
high  and  noble  studies— by  the  hands  of  those  he  thought 
his  friends — hands  that  had  been  plighted  to  him  in  af- 
fection, and  raised  with  his  in  battle — at  his  own  social 
board,  and  in  the  hour  of  confiding  tranquillity — was 
slain  Pauhnus,  leaving  not  a  nobler  or  a  better  behind." 

Theodore  again  shed  tears,  but  Flavia  asked  eagerly, 
"  The  cause,  tribune  !  What  was  the  cause — or  rather, 
what  the  pretext  for  cause — reasonable  cause  there 
could  be  none  for  dooming  to  death  one  of  the  purest, 
noblest,  least  ambitious  men  that  the  world  has  ever  yet 
seen." 

"  The  cause  was  jealousy,  lady,"  replied  Marcian  ;  "  a 
cause  that  leads  men  ever  to  wild  and  madlike  actions. 
In  the  gardens  of  the  Caesars,  near  their  eastern  capital, 
is  a  solltaiy  tree, which  bears  fruit  rarely;  but  when  it 
does,  produces  an  apple  like  that  which  hung  in  the 
garden  of  the  children  of  Hesperus— small  in  size,  golden 
in  colour,  and  ambrosial  to  the  taste.  Paulinus  had  be- 
stowed on  Eudoxiaa  book,  containing  poems  of  Sappho, 
which  no  other  manuscript  can  produce  ;  and  the  em- 
peress,  in  return,  had  sportively  promised  her  husband's 
friend  the  rarest  thing  that  she  could  find  to  bestow. 
The  tree  of  which  I  spoke  had  in  the  past  autumn  produced 
but  one  apple,  and  that  was  sent,  on  the  entrance  of  the 
new  year,  by  Theodosius  to  Eudoxia.  She,  in  thought- 
less innocence,  sent  it  as  the  rarest  of  all  things  to  Pau- 
linus, and  Chrysapheus  look  good  heed  that  the  fact 


56  ATTILA. 

should  reach  the  emperor's  ears,  distorted  to  his  pur- 
pose. Fury  seized  upon  the  heart  of  Theodosius ;  but 
the  base  eunuch  had  sufficient  skill  and  power  to  make 
him  conceal  his  suspicions  and  his  hatred,  for  Chrysa- 
pheus  well  knew  that  an  open  accusation  might  produce 
a  bold  and  successful  defence.  Paulinus  was  sent  to 
Caesarea ;  and  there,  unheard,  without  trial,  and  without 
justice,  was  put  to  death !" 

"Tyrant!"  muttered  Theodore.  "Base,  ungrateful 
tyrant !" 

"  Let  your  indignation  swallow  up  your  grief,  my 
Theodore !"  replied  Marcian ;  "  but  let  it  not  injure  your 
country.  Great  as  it  is,  great  as  it  well  may  be,  still 
greater  will  it  become  when  you  hear  that  Valens,  your 
father's  bosom  friend,  has  been  since  sacrificed  for  no 
other  crime  than  his  love  for  Pauhnus  ;  that  several  of 
your  household  slaves  have  been  slain  by  the  emperor's 
orders;  and  that  all  the  wealth  of  Paulinus  has  been 
bestowed  upon  Chrysapheus  !" 

Theodore  again  started  up,  exclaiming — "I  swear  by 
all  my  hopes,  and  by  my  father's  spirit — " 

But  Marcian  caught  his  arm,  "  Swear  nothing  against 
your  country,  my  son,"  he  cried:  "  Theodore,  we  have 
need  of  every  Roman !" 

"  Hear  me  !  hear  me  !"  cried  Theodore.  "  Naught 
against  my  country.  No,  never,  let  the  temptation  be 
what  it  may,  will  I  draw  the  sword  against  Rome.  So 
help  me  the  God  in  whom  I  trust !  But  should  ever  the 
time  come  when  this  hand  can  reach  a  tyrant,  or  a 
tyrant's  minister,  it  shall  doom  him  to  death  as  re- 
morselessly as  he  has  doomed  my  noble  father  ;"  and 
having  spoken,  he  cast  himself  down,  and  again  cov- 
ered his  face  in  his  mantle. 

Never,  perhaps,  through  all  the  long  tragic  record  of 
human  woes  and  suffering  which  the  past,  the  sad  and 
solemn  past,  holds  in  its  melancholy  treasury — never 
was  there  yet  a  scene  in  which  the  dark  feeling  of  des- 
olation penetrated  more  deeply  into  every  bosom,  than 
in  the  one  which  surrounded  the  tribune  Marcian.  The 
horrors,  the  fatigues,  the  destruction  of  the  preceding 
night,  had  laid  every  heart  prostrate  in  the  general  ca- 
lamity ;  and  when  the  blow  of  individual  grief  fell  heavy 
upon  all  alike,  it  seemed  to  crush  and  trample  out  in 
every  breast  the  last  warm  kindly  hopes — the  last  bright 
delusions  of  our  phantasm-like  existence. 


ATTILA.  57 

Flavia  gazed  on  her  children  and  on  the  orphans  in 
deep  melancholy  ;  while  Theodore,  with  his  face  buried 
in  his  robe,  sat  apart,  and  Eudochia  hid  her  streaming 
eyes  upon  her  adoptive  mother's  lap.  Ildica,  with 
clasped  hands,  and  cheeks  down  which  the  large  bright 
tears  rolled  slow,  now  gazed  upon  her  young  and  mourn- 
ing lover;  now  turned  an  inquiring,  anxious,  longing 
glance  towards  Marcian ;  who,  on  his  part,  again,  with 
knitted  brow  and  downcast  eyes,  sat  in  the  midst,  sti- 
flmg  emotions  w±ich  struggled  hard  against  control. 
Even  the  slaves  of  Flavia  and  Paulinus,  among  whom 
the  news  had  spread,  gathered  round  the  open  tent,  and, 
standing  wrapped  up  in  their  dark  penuloe,  gazed  with 
mournful  and  sympathizing  looks  upon  the  sad  group 
beneath  its  shade ;  while,  mingled  among  them,  here 
and  there,  were  seen  some  of  the  stout  soldiers  who 
had  accompanied  the  tribune,  evidently  sharing,  not- 
withstanding all  their  own  habits  of  danger  and  suffer- 
ing, and  their  frequent  familiarity  with  death  itself,  in 
the  grief  of  the  young  and  hapless  beings  before  them. 

One  only  of  the  party  seemed  occupied  with  other 
thoughts,  and  yet  the  seeming  belied  him.  Ammian, 
reclining  by  the  side  of  the  little  sandy  path  which 
crossed  the  meadow  where  they  sat,  seemed  busy,  in 
his  usual  abstracted  manner,  in  tracing  figures  on  the 
dust.  One  of  the  soldiers  moved  across  to  see  what  he 
was  employed  in,  and  by  that  action  drew  the  attention 
of  Marcian,  whose  eyes  turned  thither  too  ;  when,  to 
his  surprise,  he  beheld  written  in  the  Greek  character 
upon  the  sand — 

"  Death  to  all  tyrants  !  The  blood  of  the  guilty  for 
the  blood  of  the  innocent !     Vengeance  for  Paulinus  !" 

Rising  at  once,  he  set  his  foot  upon  the  writing  ere 
the  slower  soldier  could  decipher  what  it  meant ;  and 
then,  raising  his  finger  to  Ammian,  he  said,  with  em- 
phasis, "  Beware  !" 

The  boy  looked  up  in  his  face,  and  answered  calmly, 
"  I  will  beware,  most  noble  Marcian  !"  But  there  was 
meaning  in  his  eyes,  and  Marcian  chose  not  to  urge 
his  wild  and  daring  spirit  further. 

Seating  himself  again  by  Flavia's  side,  the  tribune, 
with  the  calm  gentleness  of  a  compassionate  heart,  en- 
deavoured to  sooth  the  pain  which  it  had  been  his  bit- 
ter task  to  inflict;  and  when  he  had,  in  a  degree,  suc- 
ceeded in  gaining  attention,  he  gave  some  orders  to  the 


68  ATTILA. 

soldiers,  and  spoke  some  words  to  the  slaves,  which 
caused  them  to  retire  from  the  vicinity  of  the  tent. 

"Listen  to  me,  Theodore,"  he  said;  "hsten  to  me, 
noble  lady!  Grief  has  had  its  part ;  other  duties  call 
for  your  consideration.  I  would  fain  ask  you,  sweet 
Flavia,  whither  you  now  propose  to  turn  your  steps  ; 
what  plan  you  now  propose  to  follow  1" 

"  We  proposed,"  replied  Flavia,  after  a  moment's 
hesitation,  "  to  go  forward  to  Salona  ;  there  to  wait,  if 
we  could  find  a  refuge,  till  the  palace  was  again  rendered 
habitable,  or  till  we  could  send  those  things  which  may 
be  necessary  to  our  own  villa  upon  the  mountains.  I 
have  not  dwelt  in  it  since  my  husband's  death ;  but,  if  it 
be  necessary,  I  can  conquer  memory." 

"To  Salona!"  replied  Marcian,  musing;  "to  Salona! 
It  is  true,  you  could  easily  fly  thence  in  case  of  neces- 
sity to  Ravenna ;  but  Valentinian,  if  report  has  informed 
me  rightly,  loves  you  not,  and  might  avenge  himself  by 
giving  you  up  to  Theodosius  !" 

Flavia  gazed  earnestly  in  the  tribune's  countenance, 
as  the  new  and  painful  conviction  of  fresh  dangers  broke 
upon  her.  "  More  sorrows!"  she  said;  "  more,  more, 
to  be  endured  !  Think  you,  then,  noble  Marcian,  that 
we  are  in  danger  at  Salona  1  Think  you,  then,  that 
Theodosius  will  extend  his  persecution  even  to  us,  in- 
nocent as  we  are  V 

"  He  has  already  slain  one  as  innocent  as  any  of  us, 
lady,"  replied  the  tribune,  "  and  he  has  given  up  to  the 
sword  one  friend  and  many  of  the  slaves  of  him  who  is 
gone.  Do  you  believe,  then,  that  he  will  spare  the 
cousin  of  one  whom  he  hated — a  cousin  who  was  loved 
as  a  sister  1  Can  you  trust  to  his  stopping  short  with 
the  father,  and  not  carrying  on  his  vengeance  to  the 
son  V 

"  Oh  that  I  were  in  his  palace !"  cried  Theodore  : 
"  oh  that  I  were  in  his  hall,  and  before  his  throne  !" 

But  Flavia  answered  more  calmly,  "  Tell  us  all  our 
danger,  tribune.  Give  your  kind  and  generous  advice. 
You  are  known  as  wise  and  good,  as  well  as  brave  and 
skilful.  We  will  give  our  actions  into  your  hands  for 
guidance.     You  shall  shape  our  course  as  you  think  fit." 

"  Lady,"  replied  Marcian,  in  a  tone  which,  notwith- 
standing all  his  command  over  himself,  showed  how 
much  his  heart  was  moved — "  lady,  I  loved  Paulinus  as 
a  brother.     He  was  wdse  and  eloquent,  learned  and 


ATTILA.  59 

brave,  and  I  am  but  the  son  of  a  common  soldier,  nur- 
tured in  camps,  and  educated  in  the  rude  lield.  Yet 
between  my  heart  and  his  there  were  common  feehngs ; 
and  in  the  course  of  our  various  lives  we  chained  our 
souls  together  by  mutual  benefits :  may  his  shade  find 
Elysium  !  When  I  heard  of  what  had  befallen,  my  first 
thought  was  of  my  friend's  children.  My  cohort  was 
in  Dalmatia,  my  time  of  command  approaching;  and 
though  I  had  been  called  to  the  capital  by  the  imperial 
mandate,  I  prepared  to  come  hither  with  all  speed. 
While  I  so  prepared,  I  heard  of  the  death  of  Valens  and 
his  slaves,  and  doubted  not  that  the  cup  might  next 
pass  to  me.  I  presented  myself  before  the  emperor  to 
know  at  once  my  doom  ;  but  he  contented  himself  with 
commanding  me  to  come  hither,  and  lead  the  troops 
instantly  into  Thrace.  Another  cohort  under  the  com- 
mand of  Strator,  the  bitter  enemy  of  Paulinus,  is  or- 
dered hither  instantly  to  regidate — such  is  the  pretext 
— the  line  of  frontier  with  the  messengers  of  Valentin- 
ian.  Lady,  I  fear  me  there  may  be  other  purposes  to 
execute ;  and  I  have  hastened,  without  pause  or  rest, 
to  bring  you  tidings  which,  sad  as  they  are,  might  have 
been  crowned  with  bitterer  still  if  I  had  not  been  the 
messenger — to  bring  you  such  tidings,  and  to  take 
counsel  with  you  for  your  safety.  My  opinion,  indeed, 
my  advice,  is  little  worthy  of  your  having  ;  but  still,  let 
us  consult  together,  and — as  far  as  my  duty  as  a  soldier 
and  a  Roman  will  permit — let  me  be  a  brother  to  the 
Lady  Flavia,  a  father  to  my  dead  friend's  orphans." 

"  Your  advice  will  be  as  wise  as  your  heart  is  kind," 
replied  Flavia.  "  Oh  give  it  us,  my  friend !  give  it  to 
us  fully  and  openly.  We  will  be  guided  by  it,  unless 
there  be  reasons  against  it,  which  even  you  yourself 
shall  approve.  If  safety  be  not  to  be  found  in  lUyricum, 
whither  would  you  have  us  go  ?" 

"  To  the  extreme  limits  of  the  empire  !"  replied  Mar- 
cian.  "  What  matters  it  to  you  what  the  land  be  called 
which  you  inhabit  for  a  few  short  years  ?  what  matters 
it  if  the  north  wind  blow  somewhat  more  coldly  than  in 
this  golden  land  ?  if  winter  wear  a  ruder  aspect,  and  the 
flowers  and  fruits  linger  for  the  summer  sun  ere  they 
bloom  and  ripen  V 

"What  matters  it,  indeed!"  said  Flavia.  **  We  love 
this  scene,  tribune — well  and  dearly  do  we  love  this 
glorious  scene — but  we  love  it  more  from  the  tender 


60  ATTILA. 

memories  that  have  been  attached  to  it,  than  even  for 
its  sumiy  splendour  and  its  face  of  beauty.  But  now 
the  thunder  which  has  stricken  us  has  turned  the  sweet 
and  fruity  wine  which  filled  our  cup  to  sour  and  hateful 
dregs.  Another  land  will  be  brighter  in  our  sight. 
Freedom  from  a  tyrant's  neighbourhood  shall  supply 
the  place  of  beauties  that  we  leave  behind  ;  the  absence 
of  objects  that  recall  our  griefs  shall  compensate  for 
those  that  once  awoke  our  joys ;  peace  shall  be  our  at- 
mosphere of  balm,  security  our  sunshine.  What  say 
you,  Theodore  ?" 

"  Let  us  go,  my  mother,"  replied  the  youth  :  "  where 
yon  and  lldica,  Ammian  and  Eudochia,  are  with  me, 
shall  be  my  country.  The  tyrant  has  smitten  down 
one  object  of  my  love,  but  he  is  powerless  over  my 
capability  of  loving  :  that  which  was  parted  is  now  all 
concentrated.  You  will  go  with  me,  my  lldica,  is  it 
not  so  1  and  my  father's  blessing — the  blessing  of  the 
dead — shall  follow,  and  comfort  us  in  exile.  But  whith- 
er would  you  direct  our  course,  noble  Marcian  V 

"  Towards  the  banks  of  the  Danube,"  he  replied. 
"There,  at  the  extreme  verge  of  the  imperial  territory, 
the  power  of  Theodosius  waxes  weak,  and  is  exercised 
with  difficulty.  There,  too,  if  mad  and  persevering 
jealousy  drive  him  still  to  seek  your  hurt,  ten  steps 
place  you  beyond  his  reach,  where  the  feeble  and  de- 
generate Caesar  dare  not  stretch  a  hand  to  grasp  you  : 
your  fathers  brother  dwells  at  Margus,  bishop  of  the 
place." 

Theodore's  countenance  fell.  "  He  was  indeed  the 
brother  of  my  father's  blood,"  he  answered,  "  but  was 
never  the  brother  of  his  love.  Grasping,  avaricious, 
crafty,  I  have  heard  my  father  say  that  Eugenius  has 
the  talents,  but  not  the  virtues,  of  a  Roman." 

"  Yet  with  him,"  replied  Marcian,  "  are  you  sure  of  a 
safer  asylum  than  with  any  one  else.  Even  at  this  mo- 
ment he  is  at  enmity  with  the  court  of  Theodosius,  and 
bears  a  mortal  hatred  to  Chrysapheus,  who  had  wronged 
him,  abandoned  him,  and,  notwithstanding  the  pleading 
of  your  father  in  his  behalf,  would  have  willingly  given 
him  up  to  the  barbarians.  With  him  you  will  find  safe- 
ty, I  must  not  say  you  will  find  vengeance — but  it  may 
be  so," 

"  Let  us  go  !"  cried  Theodore  ;  "  let  us  go,  my  moth- 
er!   The  gold  and  jewels  which,  unwitting  of  all  this,  I 


I 


ATTILA.  61 

made  the  Numidians  carry  forth  last  night,  will  render 
the  journey  lighter  to  you,  dear  mother ;  and  if  my  uncle, 
careful  of  his  wealth,  refuse  to  give  me  support,  I  will 
find  means  to  win  it  for  myself." 

"  Fear  not  for  that,"  replied  Marcian ;  "  your  father's 
wealth,  Theodore,  is  gone,  but  his  estates  are  yours ; 
and  even  Theodosius  dares  not  openly  take  from  you 
that  which  no  law  has  sentenced  you  to  lose.  Strange 
that  he  who  unquestioned  takes  a  life  unjustly  should 
not  have  power  to  seize  your  land,  and  yet  it  is  so. 
Now,  lady,  let  me  send  once  more  to  the  palace,  and  bid 
them  bring  forth  all  that  your  treasury  contains.  Take 
with  you  all  your  moveable  wealth ;  for  if  you  do  not 
so  guard  yourself,  it  will  fall  into  hands  which  render 
no  account.  I  will  bid  them,  too,  bring  forth  whatever 
litters  and  carriages  they  find,  to  bear  you  less  weary 
on  the  way ;  and  ere  two  days  be  over,  I  will  follow, 
and  rejoining  you,  protect  you  from  harm,  till,  on  the 
frontiers  of  Mcesia,  I  must  leave  you  and  march  on.  At 
all  events,  my  presence  and  my  troops  will  ensure  your 
safety  so  far ;  and  even  after  that,  I  shall  be  interposed 
between  you  and  your  enemies,  so  that  no  messenger 
of  evil  can  pass  without  my  learning  his  purpose,  delay- 
ing his  journey,  and  giving  you  timely  tidings.  Speed, 
however,  matters  much,  and  now  I  would  have  you  set 
forth  without  a  day's  delay." 

Flavia  sought  not  to  procrastinate  ;  for  though  many 
a  clinging  memory  attached  *her  to  those  scenes  by  the 
fine  filmy  ties  of  associations,  which  even  the  sharp 
edge  of  grief  could  not  cut,  yet  the  safety  of  Theodore, 
the  happiness  of  her  own  child,  the  enfranchisement 
from  a  state  of  society,  where  virtue  was  no  safeguard 
and  justice  afforded  no  shield,  were  objects  too  dear  and 
high  to  be  risked  by  delay.  Few  and  melancholy  were 
the  words  that  now  passed,  but  the  orders  of  Marcian 
were  promptly  obeyed;  and  though  he  would  suffer 
neither  Flavia  nor  Theodore  to  return,  even  for  an  hour, 
to  the  palace,  knowing  far  more  of  the  cruel  orders  which 
Theodosius  had  already  given  against  them  than  he 
chose  to  communicate,  yet  a  number  of  their  domestics 
were  sent  thither  with  his  soldiers  to  remove  all  that 
belonged  to  either  family  in  the  building. 

Ere  the  sun  had  passed  the  meridian  more  than  an 
hour,  all  who  had  been  sent  had  returned,  and  many  and 
curious  were  the  objects  which  now  surrounded  that  sad 

Vol.  I.—F 


62  ATTILA. 

group  by  the  side  of  the  cemetery.  A  number  of  mules  and 
horses  were  there;  the  black  charger  which  had  carried 
Paulinus  in  his  last  victory  over  the  Alani,  and  which  had 
never  been  ridden  since  by  any  one  but  himself ;  the  white 
horses  which  drew  the  low  carriage  called  pilentum, 
wherein  Flavia  was  accustomed  to  drive  along  the  margin 
of  the  sea ;  litters  with  their  silver  feet,  and  covered  chairs 
ofgold  and  ivory;  richcaskets;  leathern  bags  of  gold  and 
silver  coin  ;  and  large  quantities  of  silks  and  fine  linens 
(then  become  general,  but  still  considered  costly,)  made 
up  into  packages  of  convenient  sizes  for  carrying  on  the 
shoulders  of  the  slaves,  or  placing  on  the  beasts  of  bur- 
den, together  with  cups  and  vases  of  gold,  silver,  and 
precious  stones ;  and  slaves  of  all  complexions  and  of 
every  different  feature.  Everything,  in  short,  which  was 
usually  collected  in  a  wealthy  and  powerful  Roman 
house,  at  that  luxurious  and  extravagant  period,  was 
there  scattered  round  in  glittering  profusion,  giving  that 
group  the  appearance  of  some  caravan  from  Ophir  or 
from  Tyre  reposing  on  its  journey.  Some  confusion 
and  some  delay  took  place,  though  everything  was 
arranged  as  quickly  as  possible,  while  Flavia  looked  on 
in  calm  sadness,  and  Theodore  gazed  upon  the  scene 
with  burning  indignation  unquenched  by  grief,  making 
his  lip  still  quiver  and  his  bright  eye  flash. 

At  length  all  was  prepared,  and,  with  a  few  words  of 
heartfelt  thanks  to  iNIarcian,  the  lady  placed  herself  with 
Ildica  in  one  of  the  lectuhe  or  litters,  Eudochia  and  her 
chief  attendant  reclined  in  another.  Ammian  sprang 
upon  a  small  Thracian  horse,  and  Theodore  mounted 
his  father's  charger.  The  noble  beast,  wild  with  un- 
wearied strength,  reared  high  and  snorted  fiercely,  as 
he  felt  the  light  weight  of  the  young  Roman ;  but  The- 
odore with  skill  and  power  soon  curbed  him  to  his  will, 
and  patted  his  proud  neck,  while  a  tear,  given  to  the 
memory  of  him  who  was  gone,  wetted  his  eyelids. 
The  whole  party  then  moved  on,  winding  back  again 
along  the  path  which  they  had  trodden  that  very  morn- 
ing. 

Their  way  lay  over  the  hills,  and  for  an  hour  they 
moved  on,  ascending  gently,  but  without  stopping,  till 
at  length,  on  the  highest  spot  of  the  inferior  acclivity, 
which  lies  at  the  foot  of  the  higher  mountains,  Flavia 
bade  the  bearers  stop,  and  gazed  out  of  the  litter  upon 
the  scene  which  she  was  quitting  perhaps,  for  ever. 


ATTILA.  63 

There  it  lay,  robed  in  the  same  splendid  sunshine  which 
had  adorned  it  on  the  preceding  day.  To  the  eyes 
which  looked  upon  it  not  a  change  was  to  be  seen. 
The  palace,  the  village,  the  distant  town  of  Salona,  the 
beautiful  bay,  the  golden  islands  which  are  scattered 
along  the  coast,  the  liquid  sapphire  in  which  they  seemed 
to  float,  were  all  sleeping  beneath  the  wanderers'  glance 
in  the  drowsy  heat  of  midday,  looking  calm  and  tran- 
quil, as  if  nature  herself  imitated  the  hypocrisy  of  man, 
and  covered  with  deceitful  smiles  the  desolation  which 
reigned  within  her  bosom.  The  measured  round  of  the 
sun  had  scarcely  been  accomplished,  since  those  who 
now  stood  upon  the  hill-top,  fugitives  from  their  dear 
domestic  hearths,  had  met  together  after  separation,  and 
had  gazed  over  that  same  lovely  prospect  from  the 
clump  of  cypresses  which  now  lay  beneath  their  eyes. 
Scarcely  had  one  round  of  the  sun  been  accomplished 
since,  standing  there,  they  had  gazed  upon  that  pa- 
geant-like scene  of  beauty,  and  had  felt  all  its  fair  fea- 
tures reflected  from  the  clear  bright  mirror  of  the  hap- 
py heart.  Scarcely  had  one  round  been  accomplished 
since  every  splendid  object  that  the  eye  could  find,  and 
every  sweet  sound  that  the  ear  could  catch,  in  a  spot, 
and  a  moment  when  all  was  music  and  brightness, 
had  seemed  but  an  image,  a  type,  a  prophecy  of  joys, 
and  happiness,  and  successes  yet  to  come  ;  and  yet  in 
that  brief  space  an  earthquake  had  rent  and  torn  that 
enchanted  land,  and  had  scattered  ruin,  desolation,  and 
death  over  its  fair  calm  face  :  in  that  brief  space,  from 
the  bosoms  of  those  who  gazed  upon  it  had  been  torn  the 
bright  joys  of  youth  and  inexperience  ;  had  been  scat- 
tered the  dear  hopes  and  warm  imaginings  of  innocent 
expectation ;  had  been  riven  one  of  the  dearest  ties  of 
human  existence,  the  great  band  of  the  loving  and  the 
loved ;  for  not  one  in  that  sad  family  but  felt  that  the 
unjust  fate  of  Paulinus  had  given  a  chilly  coldness  to 
their  hearts — no,  not  one  from  the  youngest  to  the  old- 
est. The  young  felt  that  the  fresh  bloom  was  gone  for 
ever  from  the  Hesperian  fruit ;  the  elder  that  the 
cropped  flower  of  hope,  which  had  again  been  begin- 
ning to  blossom,  had  been  once  more  crushed  down, 
and  never  could  bloom  again. 

Between  their  fate  and  the  scene  they  gazed  upon 
there  seemed  some  fanciful  affinity ;  each  felt  it,  each 
lingered  with  fond  regret  to  gather  into  one  glance  all 


64  ATTILA. 

the  thousand  lovely  and  beloved  sights  ;  each  sighed  as 
they  gazed  and  thought  of  the  "  For  ever .'"  and  at  length, 
even  from  Flavia's  eyes,  broke  forth  the  long-repressed 
tears. 

The  slaves  stood  round  and  sympathized  with  those 
who  mourned.  Many  a  dark  eye  and  many  a  rough 
cheek  was  moistened  with  the  drops  of  kindly  feeling, 
till  at  length  the  lady  wiped  her  tears  away,  and,  waving 
her  hand  towards  the  valleys  on  the  other  side,  said, 
"  Let  us  go  on !" 

Again  they  began  to  move,  when  the  voices  of  two 
slaves  broke  forth  in  a  mournful  song,  which  they  had 
probably  often  sung  in  their  own  remote  land. 

SLAVE'S  SONG. 

L 

"  We  leave  ye  behind  us,  sweet  things  of  the  earth  ; 
Our  Ufe's  but  a  race  to  the  death  from  the  birth  ; 
"We  pause  not  to  gather  the  flowers  as  they  grow, 
The  goal  is  before  us,  and  on  we  must  go  ! 

We  leave  ye  behind  us,  sweet  things  of  the  earth. 

IT. 

'*  Fair  scenes  of  our  childhood,  dear  homes  of  our  youth, 
Memorials  of  innocence,  virtue,  and  truth. 
The  land  of  our  birth,  the  dear  mother  that  bore— 
We  leave  ye  behind  us,  we  see  you  no  more  ! 

We  leave  ye  behind  us,  sweet  things  of  the  earth. 

III. 

"  The  joys  that  we  tasted  we  taste  not  again  ; 
Each  hour  has  its  burden,  each  day  has  its  pain  ; 
No  moment  in  flying,  but  hurries  us  past 
Some  sight,  sound,  or  feeling  more  dear  than  the  last ' 
We  leave  ye  behind  us,  sweet  things  of  the  earth. 

IV. 

"  We  leave  ye  behind  us,  and  others  shall  come 
To  tread  in  our  footsteps,  from  cradle  to  tomb ; 
Still  gazing  back  fondly,  with  lingering  eyes. 
Where  behind  them  the  bright  land  of  memory  lies ! 
We  leave  ye  behind  us,  sweet  things  of  the  earth. 

V. 

"  The  sound  of  Time's  pinion,  as  fast  he  doth  fly. 
Is  echoed  from  each  mortal  breast  by  a  sigh  ; 
What  if  there  be  fruits  'i  they  ungather'd  must  grow, 
For  fate  is  behind  us,  and  on  we  must  go ! 

We  leave  ye  behind  us,  sweet  things  of  the  earth. 


ATTILA.  60 


VI. 


"  We  leave  ye  behind  us,  sweet  things  of  the  earth, 
Hopes,  joys,  and  endearments,  sport,  pleasure,  and  mirth, 
Like  a  tempest-driven  ship,  sailing  by  some  bright  shore, 
Time  hurries  us  onward— we  see  you  no  more  ! 

We  leave  ye  behind  us,  sweet  things  of  the  earth." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE    STRANGER. 

It  was  in  the  calends  of  June,  and  yet  the  day  had 
very  few  of  the  attributes  of  summer.  The  gray  rain 
came  down  heavily  from  the  dull  leaden  sky,  the  wind 
rushed  in  fierce  gusts  from  the  northeast,  the  stream 
of  the  Danube  rolled  dark  and  rapidly,  and  a  melancholy 
murmur  rose  up  from  its  waters  while  they  hurried  on 
to  the  gloomy  Euxine,  as  if  in  reply  to  the  sad  and 
wailing  voice  of  the  breeze.  The  only  thing  that  spoke 
the  season  of  the  year  was  the  vivid  verdure  of  the  wide 
green  pastures,  and  the  rich  blossoms  that  hung  upon 
the  frequent  trees.  Along  the  banks  of  the  dark  river, 
accompanied  only  by  two  freedmen  on  horseback,  rode 
Theodore,  the  son  of  Paulinus,  dressed  in  the  deep 
mourning  tunic  and  mantle  of  dark  gray,  with  no  orna- 
ment of  any  kind  upon  his  person  except  at  the  hilt  of 
his  sword.  The  same  black  charger  bore  him  with 
which  he  had  departed  from  Dalmatia ;  and,  pressing 
the  noble  beast  onward,  he  cast  his  eyes  frequently  to 
the  opposite  bank  of  the  river. 

At  length  he  suddenly  drew  in  his  bridle,  exclaim- 
ing, "  There  is  a  raft,  and  if  we  can  but  make  them 
hear  we  shall  be  secure.  Dismount,  Cremera ;  run  to 
the  margin,  and  shout  loudly  for  the  boatmen." 

The  dark  Arab,  who,  though  rendered  free  by  Flavia 
after  the  earthquake  at  Theodore's  request,  still  fol- 
lowed the  fortunes  of  the  young  Roman  with  love  ele- 
vated by  liberty,  sprang  eagerly  to  the  ground  to  obey; 
but,  to  the  surprise  of  all,  ere  he  had  led  down  his  horse 
to  the  shore,  the  raft,  which  they  had  seen  moored  to 
the  opposite  bank,  was  put  in  motion  by  two  men  who 

F3 


66  ATTILA. 

had  been  sitting  near,  under  the  shelter  of  the  wood, 
that  was  there  thick  and  tall.     Onward  it  came,  skil- 
fully piloted  across  the  stream,  till  it  approached  the 
shore,  on  which  Theodore  and  his  two  followers  now  j 
stood  ready  to  embark. 

At  the  distance  of  twenty  or  thirty  cubits,  however,J 
the  raft  paused,  and  those  who  steered  it  gazed  upon 
the  young  Roman  and  his  attendants  with  apparent  doubt 
and  surprise.  Theodore  pressed  them  to  come  on  ; 
and  then,  perceiving  that  they  were  barbarians  from 
the  north,  he  spoke  to  them  in  one  of  those  dialects 
which  feelings  connected  with  his  mother's  memory 
had  made  him  learn  and  preserve,  even  amid  the  gay 
amusements  and  deeper  studies  which  had  since  had 
their  share  of  his  time.  She  it  was  who  had  first  taught 
his  infant  tongue  to  pronounce  those  sounds  so  difficult 
for  a  Roman  to  utter  :  she  it  was  who  had  used  those 
northern  words  towards  her  boy,  in  the  early  language 
of  affection  and  tenderness ;  and  though  she  had  died 
at  a  period  of  his  life  when  the  wax  on  the  tablets  of 
memory  is  soft,  and  impressions  are  too  easily  effaced, 
he  had  never  forgotten  the  accents  that  he  had  so  dearly 
loved.  But  now,  that  knowledge  proved  not  a  little 
serviceable.  The  barbarians  looked  up  in  surprise  ;  and 
when  he  told  them,  in  a  language  they  understood,  to 
bring  near  their  raft  with  speed,  as  delay  might  be  dan- 
gerous to  him,  they  hastened  to  approach  the  shore,  and 
suffered  him  to  lead  his  unwilling  horse  upon  the  fluc- 
tuating and  unsteady  raft. 

One  of  the  attendants  followed ;  but  the  boatmen 
seemed  to  doubt  whether  their  rude  passage-boat  would 
sustain  the  third  man  and  horse  ;  though  the  large  trunks 
of  trees  whereof  it  was  composed  were  further  sup- 
ported by  skins  blown  out  like  bladders.  Theodore, 
however,  would  not  leave  one  behind;  and,  though 
sinking  deep  in  the  water,  the  raft  still  bore  them  all 
up. 

Floating  heavily  upon  the  rushing  stream,  it  reached 
the  other  bank  of  the  Danube,  and  a  piece  of  gold  re- 
paid the  service  of  the  boatmen  ;  but  though,  when  the 
foot  of  Theodore  touched  the  barbaric  land,  he  felt  the 
thrill  of  security  and  freedom  at  his  heart,  yet,  as  he 
mounted  his  horse  and  gazed  upon  the  scene  before 
him,  he  paused  with  a  sensation  of  doubt  and  awe. 
The  bank  of  the  river  where  he  stood  was  clothed  with 


ATTILA.  67 

smooth  green  turf ;  but  both  farther  up  and  lower  down 
the  stream  might  be  seen  high  rocks  ;  and  at  the  dis- 
tance of  about  a  hundred  yards  from  the  margin  rose 
up  dark,  tall,  and  gloomy,  the  forest  covering  the  pri- 
meval earth.  The  proximity  of  those  mighty  trees 
prevented  the  eye  from  discovering  aught  beyond  them, 
except  where  the  ground  sloped  down  towards  the 
west ;  but  there,  even,  no  promise  of  a  more  open 
country  was  given  :  for  over  the  first  forest  line,  at  its 
lowest  point,  might  be  seen  a  wide  extent  of  dark  gray 
wood,  rounded,  and  waving  with  an  interminable  ocean 
of  leaves  and  branches. 

The  desolate  aspect  of  the  wilderness  fell  chill  upon 
the  heart  of  the  young  Roman  ;  and  though  his  reso- 
lution to  pursue  his  way  on  that  side  of  the  river  was 
not  to  be  shaken,  yet  many  a  difficulty  and  a  danger, 
he  too  well  knew,  lay  before  him.  Through  some 
part  of  that  wood,  he  was  aware,  had  been  cut  a  mili- 
tary road,  when  the  Romans  had  been  indeed  the  sov- 
ereigns of  the  world ;  but  since  that  time  centuries  had 
passed,  and  the  inhabitants  of  the  country  had  changed : 
a  thousand  uncivilized  tribes  filled  the  land  which  the 
people  of  the  imperial  city  had  once  possessed  ;  and 
all  her  magnificent  works  had  been  destroyed  or  neg- 
lected beyond  the  mere  frontier  of  the  diminished  em- 
pire. Theodore  paused,  and  gazed  upon  that  dark  and 
gloomy  wood,  uncertain  by  what  path 'he  should  direct 
his  steps,  and  without  remarking  the  keen  and  eager 
eyes  with  which  the  two  barbarian  ferrymen  examined 
him  from  head  to  foot. 

At  length,  as  he  still  stood  scanning  the  forest,  one 
of  them  asked  some  question  of  the  Arab  Cremera; 
but  it  was  couched  in  the  language  of  the  Alani,  and 
Cremera  could  neither  comprehend  nor  answer.  The 
barbarian  then  advanced  to  the  side  of  the  young  Ro- 
man's horse,  and  said,  in  a  mild  and  sympathizing  voice, 
"  Are  you  not  he  who  was  expected  ?" 

"  I  am  not,"  replied  Theodore,  in  the  same  language. 
"  I  am  a  Roman ;  but  I  seek  to  go  to  Margus  by  the 
barbarian  bank  of  the  river." 

"  You  will  find  it  both  difficult  and  dangerous,"  an- 
swered the  other,  "  even  if  you  already  know  this  land ; 
and  if  you  do  not  know  it,  the  hzard  which  climbs  the 
rocks  and  trees,  and  glides  through  the  smallest  space 
upon  its  onward  way,  might  as  well  try  to  travel  upon 


68  ATTILA. 

the  water.  Besides,  you  know  not  whether  yon  are 
welcome  in  the  land." 

"  My  mother  was  daughter  of  Evaric,  king  of  the  Alani 
of  Gaul, "  replied  'Hieodore ;  "  and  wherever  the  land 
is  tenanted  by  that  nation  I  shall  be  welcome." 

The  man  kissed  the  edge  of  his  mantle,  saying,  "  Be 
you  welcome !"  and  Theodore  contimied :  "  Can  you 
give  me  no  one  to  guide  me  on  my  way?" 

"  I  will  see,  I  will  see  !"  replied  the  other ;  and  he  ran 
swiftly  up  into  the  wood. 

Ere  he  had  been  long  absent  he  reappeared,  followed 
by  a  young  man,  clad  in  coarse  clothing  and  common 
fur,  who  expressed  himself  willing,  for  a  small  reward, 
to  undertake  the  task  of  guiding  the  stranger  on  his 
way;  and  though,  by  his  stature  and' complexion,  very 
different  from  those  of  the  tall  and  fair  Alani,  Theodore 
discovered  at  once  that  he  was  of  some  other  tribe,  and 
found,  also,  that  he  could  only  speak  a  few  brief  sen- 
tences of  their  language,  the  young  Roman  was,  never- 
theless, glad  to  put  himself  under  the  guidance  of  any 
one  who  knew  the  country  well.  With  the  few  words 
that  he  could  command  of  the  language  which  Theodore 
had  been  speaking,  the  guide  told  him  that  it  would  be 
a  journey  of  two  days  from  that  spot  to  Margus,  and 
that  houses  where  they  could  find  refreshment  and  re- 
pose would  be  few;  but  still  Theodore  determined  to 
pursue  his  way,  and  the  guide  was  at  once  promised  the 
hire  that  he  demanded. 

He  made  the  young  Roman  stay  while  he  caught  and 
mounted  a  small  shaggy  horse  which  had  been  straying 
in  the  wood,  round  a  hut  which  was  just  to  be  distin- 
guished upon  the  upland,  through  the  bolls  of  the  tall 
trees.  No  sooner  had  he  sprung  upon  his  beast,  how- 
ever, than  the  whole  nature  of  the  barbarian  seemed 
changed.  Where  he  had  been  slow  and  limping  in  his 
gait,  he  became  quick  and  active  ;  and  setting  off  at  full 
speed  through  the  forest,  he  pursued  paths  along  which 
it  was  scarcely  possible  for  Theodore  and  his  compan- 
ions to  follow  him  ;  so  narrow  were  they,  so  tangled, 
so  insecure  for  any  horse  unaccustomed  to  those  intri- 
cate wilds. 

Still  poured  down  the  rain  ;  and  as  they  galloped  on 
through  those  dim  vistas  and  sudden  breaks,  the  white 
mist  rolled  in  volumes  among  the  trees,  and  each 
footfall  of  the  horses  produced  a  cloud  from  the  marshy 


ATTILA.  69 

grass.  At  length,  towards  the  evening,  the  sun,  some 
three  hours  past  his  meridian,  began  to  break  through 
the  heavy  clouds,  and  streamed  down  the  glades  of  the 
forest,  while  the  light  vapours  rolled  away,  and  the 
birds  sang  sweetly  from  the  woody  coverts  around.  In 
another  hour  three  small  tents  of  skins  were  seen  ;  and, 
pausing  there  for  a  short  space,  the  guide  procured  some 
food  for  the  horses  and  milk  for  the  riders.  The  people 
of  the  tents  looked  wild  and  fierce,  and  spoke  the  dialect 
of  the  Huns,  which  was  unintelhgible  to  all  ears  but 
that  of  the  guide.  They  showed  no  curiosity  in  regard 
to  the  strangers'  appearance,  but  they  evinced  that  avidity 
which  is  the  pecuhar  vice  of  frontier  tribes. 

At  the  end  of  less  than  an  hour  the  guide  pointed  to 
the  sun  and  to  the  horses ;  and  Theodore,  mounting, 
once  more  followed  him  on  his  way.  Night  fell  ere 
they  again  saw  a  human  abode  ;  but  at  length  they  halted 
before  a  tall  tower  of  hewn  stone,  which  had,  in  former 
years,  been  a  Roman  fort,  built  as  a  defence  against  the 
very  barbarians  who  now  possessed  the  land.  The 
guide  tried  the  gateway  ;  but  finding  it  fast,  shouted 
loudly  for  admission.  He  then  paused  to  listen  if  any 
reply  were  made ;  and  while  he  did  so,  Theodore  heard 
afar  the  melancholy  roaring  of  the  Danube. 

At  length  some  grim  faces  and  wild  fur-clad  forms 
presented  themselves  at  the  gate,  and  Theodore  and  his 
followers  were  led  into  what  had  been  the  chamber  of 
the  guard.  There  was  no  want  of  hospitality — nay,  nor 
of  courtesy  of  heart — shown  by  the  rude  tenants  of 
that  half  ruined  building,  to  the  young  stranger  who 
sought  the  shelter  of  the  roof  that  had  become  theirs. 
They  lighted  a  fire  in  the  midst  of  the  hall  to  dry  his 
still  damp  garments ;  they  brought  forth  their  stock  of 
fruit  and  milk,  and  even  some  of  the  delicacies  obtained 
from  the  neighbouring  country.  Broiled  fish  was  speed- 
ily added ;  and  while  the  men,  by  speaking  gestures, 
pressed  him  to  his  food,  the  women  touched  his  mantle, 
and  seemed  by  their  smiles  to  marvel  at  its  fineness. 

Though  their  appearance  was  rude,  and  no  comeliness 
of  form  or  feature  won  by  external  beauty  that  confi- 
dence which  is  so  often  refused  to  homely  truth,  yet 
Theodore  read  in  their  looks  that  he  was  secure,  and 
lay  himself  down  upon  a  bed  of  skins  to  seek  that 
repose  which  he  so  much  needed.  The  freedmen  lay  at 
his  feet ;  and  all  was  soon  silence  within  those  crum- 


■0  ATTILA. 


bling  walls :  but  sleep,  the  bosom  friend  of  youth  anl 
happiness,  grows  timorous  as  a  sacred  bird  after  the 
first  fell  grasp  of  grief.  All  that  he  had  gone  through 
•witliin  the  last  sad  month,  all  that  weighed  upon  his 
mind  even  then,  came  hack  in  the  visions  of  tlie  night, 
and  three  times  roused  the  young  Koman  from  liis  light 
and  troubled  slumbers.  The  first  time  all  was  still,  and 
the  light  of  the  blazing  fire  of  pine  flickered  over  the 
dark  forms  that  lay  sleeping  around.  The  next  time 
Avlien  he  woke  two  figures  were  standing  between  him 
and  the  light ;  but  one  soon  turned  away  and  left  the 
chamber,  while  the  other,  who  remained,  cast  some 
fagots  on  the  embers,  and  again  lay  himself  down  to 
rest.  The  shmiber  that  succeeded  was  deeper,  heavier, 
more  tranquil ;  and  wiien  he  again  awoke,  daylight  was 
streaming  in  from  above.  Almost  all  the  Huns  whom 
he  had  seen  the  night  before  had  left  the  chamber,  and 
one,  whom  he  had  not  hitherto  beheld,  stood  with  his 
arms  folded  on  his  clicst,  gazing  upon  him  as  he  lay 
stretched  in  the  morning  light. 

Between  Tlieodore  and  the  barbarian,  however,  awa- 
kened, watchful,  and  prepared,  with  his  spear  grasped 
in  his  hand,  sat  the  faithful  Cremera,  his  giant  limbs 
and  swelling  muscles  all  ready  to  start  into  defence  of 
his  master  on  the  slightest  appearance  of  danger  ;  but 
the  eyes  of  the  Hun  seemed  not  even  to  see  the  slave, 
so  intently  were  those  small  but  searching  orbs  turned 
upon  the  countenance  of  the  young  Roman.  Even 
when  he  woke  and  looked  up,  the  Hun  withdrew  not 
that  steadfast  gaze  ;  but  seemed  to  contemplate,  with 
eager  curiosity,  the  same  features  which  he  had  beheld 
silent  and  cold  in  sleep  now  wakening  up  into  warm 
and  speaking  life. 

Theodore  returned  the  glance  for  a  moment  without 
rising,  and,  as  he  lay,  scanned  the  person  of  the  Hun. 
He  was  shorter  than  the  ordinary  height  of  the  Ro- 
mans ;  but  his  breadth  across  the  shoulders  was  gigantic, 
Avith  thin  flanks  and  long  muscular  arms.  His  features 
■were  by  no  means  handsome,  and  his  complexion  was  a 
pale  dark  brown ;  but  yet  there  was  something  in  that 
countenance  remarkable,  striking,  not  displeasing.  The 
small  black  eyes  had  an  inexpressible  brilliancy;  the 
forehead,  surmounted  with  tliin  gray  hair,  was  broad, 
high,  and  majestic;  and  the  firm  immoveable  bend  of 
the  almost  beardless  lips  spoke  that  decision  and  strength 


.1 


ATTILA.  71 

of  character  which,  when  displayed,  either  in  good  or 
evil,  commands  a  separate  portion  of  respect.  His 
dress  was  nearly  the  same  as  that  of  the  other  barba- 
rians whom  Theodore  had  already  encountered,  con- 
sisting of  dark  gray  cloth  and  skins ;  but  the  cloth 
was  somewhat  finer  in  texture,  and  the  skins  had  a 
smooth  and  glossy  softness,  which  showed  the  young 
Roman  that  the  man  who  stood  before  him  was  superior 
to  the  rest  of  those  by  whom  he  was  surrounded.  Nor 
had  it,  indeed,  required  the  slight  superiority  of  his  garb 
to  teach  Theodore  that  he  beheld  no  ordinary  man.  It 
has  been  asserted,  and  it  may  be  so,  that  from  some 
hidden  source  of  sympathy,  some  instinctive  presci- 
ence, we  always  feel  peculiar  sensations  on  first  meet- 
ing with  one  who  is  destined  greatly  to  influence  or 
control  our  fate  through  life ;  and  whether  such  be  the 
case  or  not,  certain  it  is  that  through  the  breast  of  The- 
odore, the  moment  his  eyes  rested  on  the  Hun,  passed 
a  thrill,  not  of  fear,  nor  of  awe,  nor  even  of  surprise,  but 
of  strange  and  mingled  emotions,  such  as  he  had  never 
known  before ;  and,  as  I  have  said,  he  continued  in  the 
same  recumbent  attitude,  gazing  firmly  in  the  face  of 
one  who  gazed  so  steadfastly  at  him. 

After  a  short  pause,  however,  the  Hun  spoke,  addres- 
sing him  in  the  tongue  of  the  Alani.  "Though  that 
bed,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  deep-toned  voice,  every  word  of 
which  was  as  distinct  and  clear  as  if  spoken  by  a  Stentor 
— '•  though  that  bed  must  be  but  a  hard  one  for  the  soft 
limbs  of  a  Roman,  thou  seemest  too  fond  of  it  for  such 
a  youth  as  thou  art." 

"  Thou  art  mistaken,  barbarian,"  replied  Theodore, 
springing  on  his  feet ;  "  the  Romans,  who  can  lie  on 
silken  couches  when  they  find  them,  do  not  think  the 
ground  neither  tou  cold  nor  too  hard  when  necessary  to 
use  it  for  a  bed.  I  was  weary  with  long  journeying  for 
many  days ;  otherwise  the  crowing  cock  is  my  awa- 
kener." 

"  Thou  speakest  the  Alan  tongue  well,"  said  the  Hun, 
gazing  at  him  from  head  to  foot ;  "  and  thou  art  in  col- 
our and  in  size  hke  a  northman.  Say,  art  thou  really  a 
Roman!" 

"  I  am,"  replied  Theodore ;  "but  ray  mother  was  the 
daughter  of  Evaric — " 

"  King  of  the  Alani,"  interrupted  the  Hun :  "  then  thy 
father  was  Paulinus,  count  of  the  offices.    We  have 


72  ATTILA. 

met,"  lio  added,  musing  ;  "  we  liavc  met ;  he  is  a  valiant 
man  :  \vhrrc  is  li«-^  now  V 

"  In  tlio  grnve,''  replied  Theodore, 

The  Hun  started  ;  and,  after  a  moment's  pause,  replied, 
*'  I  grieve  for  him  ;  he  was  a  valiant  man  :  how  did  he 
die?" 

"It  matters  not,"  answered  Theodore;  "he  is  dead. 
And  now,  barbarian,  I  \vould  fain  speed  on  my  way,  for 
I  would  b(^  at  IMargus  as  early  as  may  be.  Where  is 
my  guide  V 

"To  IMargiis !"  said  the  Hun:  "know  you  that  the 
priest  of  that  city — the  bishop  as  they  call  him — has 
otl'ended  Attila  the  King?  know  you  that  Attila  has  de- 
manded him  from  Theodosius  as  a  slave,  to  set  his 
foot  upon  his  neck,  and  trample  on  him  ?" 

"  1  have  heard  such  rumours  as  I  came  hither,"  replied 
Theodore  ;  "  but  it  matters  not  to  me  what  quarrel  there 
may  be  between  m}*  uncle  and  the  barbarian  chief. 
Attila  will  find  it  hard  to  trample  on  the  brother  of  Pau- 
linus." 

"  Ay !  so  he  is  Paulinus'  brother !"  cried  the  Hun ; 
"  I  do  remember  now  he  is  his  brother  :  but  if  thou  bear- 
est  tidings  from  Theodosius  to  thine  uncle,  tell  him  to 
put  no  faith  in  the  arms  of  men  who  know  not  how  to 
use  them ;  to  trust  not  in  those  who  daily  break  their 
promises.  Tell  him  that  he  who  bade  you  thus  speak 
knows  full  well  Attila  the  King ;  and  that  he  will  as  soon 
abandon  his  prey  as  the  hungry  vulture.  Your  guide 
is  gone ;  but  follow  me ;  I  will  show  you  the  way  to 
Margiis." 

A  number  of  barbarians  were  collected  in  the  lower 
part  of  the  tower  and  in  the  open  space  round  it ;  but 
without  a  word  they  suffered  Theodore  and  his  freed- 
men.  with  their  new  guide,  to  proceed  to  a  tree  under 
which  four  horses  stood  prepared.  All  passed  in  silence ; 
no  one  stood  forward  to  assist ;  no  one  advanced  to  re- 
quire recompense  from  the  young  stranger.  The  Hun 
who  accompanied  him  sprang  on  his  own  horse  at  one 
bound,  and  then  sat  as  if  of  a  piece  with  the  animal; 
while  Theodore  drew  forth  a  coin  of  gold,  and  beckoned 
forward  the  barbarian  who  had  acted  the  foremost  part, 
on  the  preceding  night,  in  offering  him  the  rites  of  hos- 
pitality. The  man  looked  wistfully  at  the  gold  piece 
which  Theodore  held  out  towards  him,  and  then  at  the 
face  of  his  superior,  who  sat  beside  the  young  Roman. 


ATTILA.  73 

The  horseman,  however,  bowed  his  head,  and  the  other 
instantly  took  the  money,  uttering  a  number  of  words 
which  Theodore  did  not  understand,  but  construed  into 
thanks.  Turning  their  bridles  then  towards  the  Danube, 
the  journey  towards  Margus  was  recommenced,  the 
Hun  leading  the  way  at  a  slow  pace. 

"  You  ride  not  so  swiftly  as  our  guide  of  yesterday," 
said  Theodore,  after  proceeding  for  a  few  minutes,  with 
the  impatience  of  youth  and  anxiety  urging  him  on ; 
"remember,  I  would  be  at  Margus  ere  nightfall," 

"  'Tis  a  three  hours'  journey,"  said  the  cither,  calmly  : 
*'  you  are  impatient,  youth.  I  would  fain  spare  the 
beast  thou  ridest ;  for,  were  it  as  the  gods  willed  it  to 
be,  it  would  be  a  noble  creature,  and  thou  hast  ridden 
it  too  long  and  too  hard  yesterday  for  a  creature  so 
sleek  and  pampered." 

"  Despise  it  not,  Hun !"  said  Theodore,  as  he  saw  the 
keen  bright  eye  of  his  companion  running  over  the 
charger's  limbs;  "despise  it  not.  It  has  carried  my 
father  through  a  bloody  field  of  battle,  and  has  borne 
me  througli  a  long  and  painful  journey,  after  which  it 
may  well  show  some  signs  of  weariness  ;  therefore 
despise  it  not,  though  it  be  unlike  the  rugged  brute  which 
thou  ridest  thyself." 

"  I  do  not  despise  it,"  rejoined  the  Hun.  "  In  former 
times  its  soft  and  silken  coat,  its  delicate  limbs  and 
weighty  body,  might  have  provoked  my  scorn;  but  I 
have  learned  to  know  that  all  things  have  their  uses, 
and  to  despise  nothing  but  vicious  luxury,  effeminacy, 
and  cowardice.  I  see  no  reason  why  there  should  not 
be  tribes  who  fight,  and  tribes  who  cultivate  the  land : 
each  may  be  useful ;  and  so  with  your  horse  and  mine. 
Mine  will  carry  me  with  a  swiftness,  and  to  a  distance, 
and  for  a  length  of  time,  impossible  to  yours  ;  will  bear 
weather,  and  food,  and  cold,  under  which  yours  would 
die  ;  but,  very  likely,  in  the  shock  of  battle  yours  would 
bear  down  mine — if  I  did  not  prevent  it — and,  perhaps, 
might  perform  feats  that  mine  could  never  learn.  It  is 
only  when  I  see  man  debase  himself  to  carve  images, 
and  paint  pictures,  and  work  gold,  and  spend  years  in 
making  a  dwelling  to  cover  his  miserable  head,  and  lie 
upon  the  feathers  of  birds,  and  cover  himself  with  the 
woven  excrements  of  a  worm,  that  I  now  feel  disgust. 
Gems,  and  jewels,  and  cups  of  gold  and  silver,  may  be 
wrought  by  other  nations,  and  may  be  used  by  us ;  but 

Vol.  I.— G 


74  ATTILA. 

it  is  the  part  of  bold  and  brave  men  to  take  them  from 
those  who  are  weak  and  effeminate  enough  to  make 
them." 

"  I  cannot  argue  with  yon,  barbarian,"  replied  Theo- 
dore ;  "  my  mind  wanders  unto  other  things  :  but  1  have 
heard  my  father  say  that  all  the  graces  and  elegances 
of  social  hfe  are  the  true  touchstone  of  the  noble  heart. 
Those  who  are  inclined  by  nature  to  evil  will  become 
effeminate  and  corrupt  under  their  influence ;  while 
those  who  are  brave  and  virtuous  only  gain  thence  a 
higher  point  of  virtue  and  a  nobler  motive  for  daring. 
The  diamond,  when  we  throw  it  in  the  fire,  loses  no- 
thing but  tlie  dirt  and  dust  it  may  have  gathered,  and 
comes  out  clearer  than  before.  A  barbarian  fights  be- 
cause he  has  nothing  to  lose  but  life,  which  has  many 
miseries  and  few  enjoyments  ;  a  Roman,  because  he 
has  a  duty  to  perform,  although  a  thousand  ties  of  re- 
fined pleasures  and  multiplied  enjoyments  bind  him  to 
the  life  he  risks," 

"Therefore  is  it  that  the  Romans  fight  so  feebly,"  re- 
plied the  Hun ;  but  as  he  saw  the  colour  mounting  in 
the  cheek  of  Theodore,  he  added,  "  Be  not  angry,  youth  : 
my  words  shall  not  offend  your  ear  in  a  land  which 
thou  hast  sought,  trusting  to  our  hospitality.  Thy 
father  might  well  speak  as  thou  sayst  he  did,  for  he 
was  one  of  those  that  showed  his  own  words  true." 

"  Thou  doest  my  father  justice,  my  country  wrong," 
replied  Theodore  ;  "  but  the  day  may  come,  Hun — the 
day  may  come  when  Romans,  rousing  themselves  from 
the  sleep  into  which  they  have  fallen,  may  teach  those 
who  now  mistake  idleness  for  cowardice,  who  take  the 
love  of  repose  and  peace  for  timidity,  that  the  lion  yet 
lives,  though  his  roar  has  not  been  heard  for  years." 

A  grim  smile  hung  for  a  moment  on  the  lip  of  the 
barbarian,  and  then  passed  away  ;  but  he  replied  nothing 
directly  to  the  tart  answer  of  his  young  companion. 
At  length,  as  they  rode  along  by  the  rushing  Danube, 
winding  their  way  once  more  between  the  forests  and 
the  river,  he  pointed  first  to  the  one  and  then  to  the 
other  bank,  saying,  "  Lo,  Roman  civilization — Scythian 
rudeness !  and  yet,  as  thou  sayst,  the  time  may  come 
— nay,  it  may  be  near,  when  the  trial  will  take  place, 
of  which  country  produces,  which  habits  nourish,  the 
boldest  hearts  and  strongest  hands.  But  setting  that 
apart,  I  say,  give  me  the  forest  and  the  wild  meadow, 


ATTILA.  75 

and  the  simple  hut  or  tent  of  skins,  truth,  justice,  free- 
dom :  for  it  is  my  belief  that  simplicity  and  honesty  are 
one  ;  luxury  and  falsehood  are  not  to  be  divided.  Look 
at  this  forest,"  he  continued,  after  a  brief  pause;  "  it 
seems  almost  impervious,  yet  thou  hast  found  a  way 
through  it ;  and  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  which  we  are 
now  mounting  you  will  find  a  paved  road,  leading  into 
the  heart  of  the  land.  It  was  constructed  by  thy  an- 
cestors, nearly  in  a  line  with  the  famous  vallum  Ro- 
manum  ;  and  if  at  any  time  need  or  fancy  should  make 
thee  wish  to  see  the  nations  which  live  beyond  this 
woody  barrier,  follow  that  road,  and  ask  for  Onegisus, 
the  friend  of  Attila  the  King.  Thou  shalt  find  safety, 
friends,  and  protection.  But  see  !  we  are  at  the  top  of 
the  hill,  and  I  must  leave  thee.  Yonder,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  stream,  where  the  blue  mist  is  rolling  up  the 
mountain,  lies  Margus.  Lo  !  its  many  towers!  Thou 
canst  not  miss  the  way.     Now  Mars  protect  thee  !" 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE    BISHOP    OF    MARGUS. 

The  two  sides  of  that  mountain  were  like  the  pros- 
pect laid  out  beneath  the  eyes  of  man  when,  in  the 
midst  of  life,  he  pauses  to  survey  the  past  and  to  scru- 
tinize the  future.  Dark  and  gloomy,  on  the  one  hand, 
stretched  masses  impervious  to  the  eye,  wrapped  in 
uncertain  mists  and  vague,  undefined  confusion,  where 
nothing  was  known,  nothing  was  sure,  but  that  there 
lay  ruin,  chill  neglect,  and  desolation,  even  unto  those 
regions  where  the  Cimmerian  darkness  of  the  grave 
covered  and  confounded  all.  On  the  other  hand,  stretch- 
ing out  like  the  sweet  memories  that  lie  along  the  path 
of  youth,  was  seen  a  fair  and  beautiful  land,  with  the 
Danube  rushing  on  through  the  midst  towards  Margus  : 
valley  and  hill,  fragments  of  the  Dacian  forests,  but 
broken  by  broad  cultivated  plains,  a  watch-tower  here 
and  there ;  then,  within  their  guardian  line,  a  farm,  a  villa, 
gardens,  and  pasturages,  with  the  towers  and  walls  of 
Margus  at  about  eight  miles'  distance  ;  and  beyond,  but 


76  ATTILA. 

to  the  right,  the  Mons  Aureus  rising,  like  a  pile  of  lapis 
lazuli,  in  blue  majestic  splendour  to  the  sky. 

Theodore  paused  to  gaze ;  and  feelings,  mingled,  in- 
tense, and  even  painful,  woke  in  his  bosom  at  the  sight 
of  those  fair  scenes  from  which  he  might  so  soon  be 
driven,  contrasted  with  that  dark  and  gloomy  land  which 
might  prove  his  only  refuge. 

He  turned,  however,  after  a  moment's  silence,  to  ask 
the  Hun  if  he  could,  in  truth,  prefer  the  one  to  the  other ; 
but  the  barbarian  had  left  him  without  further  leave- 
taking,  and  his  dark  form  was  seen  riding  rapidly  to- 
wards the  thickest  part  of  the  forest.  Theodore  still 
remained  gazing  over  the  prospect ;  but,  as  he  did  so, 
he  thought  he  heard  a  distant  shout  of  many  voices 
rising  up  from  the  woods  behind  him  ;  and,  fearful  of  any 
interruption  in  his  course,  he  hurried  on  upon  the  road 
which  lay  open  before  him. 

Increasing  tokens  of  civilization  now  met  his  eye  at 
every  step  as  he  proceeded ;  and  shortly  before  he 
reached  the  shore,  at  the  nearest  point  to  the  city,  he 
beheld  more  than  one  ferryboat,  no  longer  a  mere  raft, 
supported  by  inflated  skins,  but  barks,  provided  ex- 
pressly for  tiie  purpose,  and  offering  every  convenience 
at  which  the  mature  art  of  the  Romans  had  yet  arrived. 
"Without  question,  the  young  Roman  and  his  followers 
were  admitted  into  one  of  the  boats,  and  in  a  few  min- 
utes were  landed  on  the  other  side  of  the  Danube,  in  the 
midst  of  all  that  hurry,  bustle,  and  luxurious  activity 
which  marked  the  precincts  of  a  Roman  city,  even  in  a 
remote  province,  and  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  those 
barbarian  allies  who  were  soon  destined  to  overwhelm 
all  those  soft  and  splendid  scenes  in  blood  and  ashes. 

The  Roman  dress  and  air  of  Theodore  and  his  two 
freedmen  enabled  them  to  pass  on  unquestioned  through 
the  gates ;  where  a  few  soldiers,  with  their  spears  cast  idly 
down,  their  helmets  laid  aside,  and  their  swords  unbraced, 
sat  gaming  in  the  sun,  offering  a  sad  but  striking  picture 
of  the  decay  of  that  discipline  which  had  once  so  speedily 
won,  and  had  so  long  preserved,  the  dominion  of  the 
world.  Gayly  and  tunefully  carolled  the  flower-girl,  as 
she  tripped  along  with  her  basketful  of  wreaths  and 
garlands  for  the  festal  hall  or  the  flowing  wine-cup  ; 
loudly  shouted,  with  the  ready  cyathus  in  his  hand,  the 
seller  of  hot  wine  in  the  Thermopolium ;  eagerly  argued 
the  lawyer  and  the  suiter  as  they  hurried  along  to  the 


ATTILA.  77 

S. 

% 

tribunal  of  the  duumvir ;  gayly  laughed  tlie  boys,  as, 
followed  by  a  slave  bearing  their  books,  they  hastened 
homeward  from  the  school.  Splendid  dresses,  fair  faces, 
magnificent  shops,  and  chariots  with  tires  of  gold  and 
silver,  htters  with  cushions  stuffed  with  the  flowers  of 
the  new-blown  rose,  met  the  eye  of  Theodore  in  every 
direction ;  and  as  he  looked  on  all  this  luxury  and  mag- 
nificence, and  compared  it  with  the  scenes  he  had  just 
quitted,  he  could  not  help  asking  himself,  "  And  is  this 
Margus  1  Is  this  the  city  daily  threatened  by  barbarian 
enemies  ■?  Is  this  the  ext.reme  point  of  civilization,  upon 
the  very  verge  of  woods,  and  wilds,  and  hordes  of  sav- 
age Scythians]" 

At  the  end  of  a  wide  open  space,  towards  the  centre 
of  the  town,  rose  one  of  those  beautiful  peristyles — less 
light,  but  perhaps  more  imposing,  than  the  Greek — 
whereof  so  many  had  been  constructed  under  Hadrian. 
Within  it  appeared  a  massy  temple,  formerly  dedicated 
to  Jupiter,  but  now  consecrated  to  that  purer  faith  des- 
tined to  remain  unsullied  through  everlasting  ages, 
notwithstanding  the  faults,  the  follies,  and  the  vices  of 
some  of  its  ministers. 

At  the  moment  that  the  young  Roman  entered  the 
forum,  the  mingled  crowd  of  worshippers  was  descend- 
ing the  steps  of  the  temple ;  and  above  them,  between 
the  two  central  pillars  of  the  portico,  clothed  in  his 
sacerdotal  robes,  and  with  his  extended  hands  giving  his 
blessing  to  the  people,  stood  a  tall  and  princely  form,  in 
which  Theodore  instantly  recognised  the  Bishop  of 
Margus,  the  brother  of  his  father. 

Dismounting  from  his  horse,  the  young  Roman  waited 
for  a  moment,  until  the  crowd  had  in  some  degree  dis- 
persed, and  then,  ascending  the  steps  towards  the  door 
through  which  his  uncle  had  retired  into  the  church,  he 
asked  a  presbyter,  who  was  still  lingering  on  the 
threshold,  if  he  could  speak  with  the  bishop. 

"  You  will  find  him  at  his  dwelling,  my  son,"  rephed 
the  presbyter  :  "  he  has  passed  through  the  church,  and 
has  gone  to  his  mansion,  which  lies  just  behind  it." 

Theodore  took  the  direction  in  which  the  presbyter 
pointed  with  his  hand ;  and,  followed  by  Cremera  and 
the  other  freedman,  reached  the  entrance  of  a  splendid 
dweUing,  round  the  doors  of  which  stood  a  crowd  of 
poor  clients,  waiting  for  the  daily  dole  of  bread  and 
wine.    Theodore  found  some  difficulty,  however,  in 

G2 


78  ATTILA. 

obtaining  admission  to  his  uncle's  presence.  "  He  is 
gone  to  divest  himself  of  his  sacred  robes,"  one  slave 
replied ;  "  He  is  busy  in  private  devotion,"  asserted  an- 
other; a  third  plainly  refused  to  admit  the  stranger, 
unless  previously  informed  of  his  name  and  purpose. 

"  Tell  the  bishop,"  said  Theodore,  "  that  it  is  a  Ro- 
man from  Constantinople,  who  brings  him  tidings  of  his 
friends,  which  it  much  imports  him  to  hear  as  soon  as 
may  be." 

There  was  the  accent  of  command  in  the  young  Ro- 
man's speech,  which  made  the  slave  hasten  to  obey ; 
and  in  a  moment  after  the  curtain,  beneath  which  he 
had  passed  in  order  to  communicate  the  message  to  the 
bishop,  was  drawn  back,  and  Theodore  found  himself  in 
the  presence  of  his  uncle. 

The  prelate  gazed  upon  him  for  a  moment  in  silence. 
It  is  probable  that  at  first  he  did  not  recognise  the  boy, 
"whom  he  had  not  seen  for  several  years,  in  the  young 
m.an  that  now  stood  before  him  ;  and  yet  that  faint  and 
twilight  recollection — more  like  the  act  of  perception 
than  of  remembrance — by  which  old  impressions  first 
break  upon  us,  before  memory  has  time  distinctly  to 
trace  out  the  particulars,  caused  the  shades  of  manifold 
emotions  to  pass  over  his  countenance,  as  his  eyes  re- 
mained fixed  on  the  face  of  his  nephew. 

"  Theodore  !"  he  exclaimed  at  length,  "  Theodore  ! 
what  in  the  name  of  Heaven  has  brought  you  here  at 
this  hour,  and  under  these  circumstances  1  Know  you 
not  that  the  barbarians  demand  my  life  to  expiate  the 
sins  of  others  1  Know  you  not  that  they  threaten  to 
seek  me  even  here,  and  sate  their  vengeance  in  the  blood 
of  my  flock,  if  I  be  not  given  up  to  them  1  Know  you 
not  that  the  weak  emperor,  after  having  faintly  refused 
Ifjieir  horrible  demand,  now  hesitates  M'hether  he  should 
yield  his  innocent  subject,  and  the  teacher  of  his  people, 
to  the  barbarous  hands  of  his  enemies'?  What  was 
your  father  thinking  of  to  send  you  here  1  unless,  indeed, 
he  be  bringing  six  legions  to  my  aid,  and  you  be  but  the 
harbinger  of  the  coming  succour." 

"  Alas,  my  uncle,"  replied  Theodore,  mournfully,  "  no 
such  tidings  have  I  to  tell ;  nevertheless,  my  tidings  are 
not  few  nor  of  little  import ;  but  let  us  speak  of  them 
alone.  Here  there  are  many  ears  around  us ;  and  you 
may  perchance  find  it  expedient  to  consider  well  what  I 
have  to  say  ere  you  make  it  public." 


ATTILA.  79 

As  he  spoke,  he  glanced  his  eye  towards  the  crowd 
of  slaves  and  officers  who  filled  the  other  end  of  the 
hall  in  which  they  stood  ;  and  the  bishop,  who  had  been 
moved  to  indiscretion  by  the  sudden  appearance  of  his 
nephew,  resumed  the  caution,  which,  though  a  bold,  am- 
bitious man,  formed  part  of  his  natural  character,  and, 
making  a  sign  with  his  hand,  said  merely,  "  Follow  me." 
As  he  spoke,  he  led  the  way  through  the  great  hall  to  a 
small  room  beyond,  from  which  a  flight  of  steps  de- 
scended to  a  beautiful  garden,  laid  out  in  slopes,  and 
adorned  with  many  a  statue  and  many  a  fountain.  The 
curtain,  drawn  back  between  it  and  the  hall,  exposed  to 
the  view  any  one  who  approached  on  that  side,  while 
on  the  other  the  terraces  lay  open  to  the  eye,  so  that 
naught  with  a  step  less  stealthy  than  that  of  Time  him- 
self could  approach  unperceived. 

"  Here,  my  nephew,  here,"  said  the  bishop,  "  our 
secret  words  will  not  pass  beyond  our  own  bosoms. 
Tell  me  what  brings  you  hither  at  a  moment  of  such 
earnest  difficulty — at  a  moment  when  I  know  not 
whether  the  base  emperor  may  not  deliver  me  up  to 
the  barbarian  Attila,  I  who  have  abandoned  all — state, 
dignity,  the  paths  of  ambition  and  of  glory — to  devote 
myself  to  the  service  of  God  and  his  holy  church.  Yet 
tell  me,  first,  how  fares  your  father,  how  fares  my 
noble  brother  1  Why  wrote  he  not  in  answer  to  my 
letter  beseeching  him  to  use  his  power  with  Theodosius 
in  my  behalf]" 

"  I  come,"  replied  Theodore — who,  judging  that  the 
bishop's  questions  regarding  Paulinus  were  but  formal 
words  of  no  deep  meaning,  proceeded  at  once  to  the 
point  on  which  his  uncle's  curiosity  was  really  excited 
— "  I  come,  my  uncle,  to  seek  refuge  and  shelter  with 
you  against  the  anger  of  a  base,  weak  monarch.  Three 
days'  journey  behind  me  is  your  cousin,  Julia  Flavia, 
with  her  children  and  my  sister.  Persecuted  by  Theo- 
dosius for  no  fault  committed,  we  thought  that  if  we 
could  find  shelter  in  the  world  it  would  be  with  my  uncle 
at  Margus." 

"  Safety  at  Margus  !"  cried  the  prelate,  in  truth  afi'ect- 
ed  by  the  earnest  and  pleading  tone  in  which  his  nephew 
spoke — "  safety  at  Margus  !  Oh,  Theodore,  Theodore  ! 
is  there  safety  to  be  found  on  board  a  sinking  ship  ?  Is 
there  safety  to  be  found  between  the  opposing  spears 
of  two  hostile  armies  met  in  battle  ]    You  come  to  me 


80  ATTILA. 

at  a  time  when  I  know  not  whether  the  next  moment 
may  continue  to  afford  security  to  myself.  You  come 
to  me  at  a  moment  when  my  soul  is  trembling — though 
not  with  fear — no,  but  wavering  with  uncertain  purposes, 
like  a  loosened  sail  quivering  in  the  blast  of  the  tempest, 
uncertain  to  which  side  it  may  be  driven,  or  whether  it 
may  not  be  torn  in  fragments  from  the  mast.  You  come 
to  me  in  such  a  moment  as  this  for  refuge  1  But  could 
not  your  father  protect  you — my  great,  my  warlike,  my 
courtly,  my  all-powerful  brother,  who  despised  the  poor- 
spiriied  priest,  and  thought  the  robe  and  stole  the  ref- 
uge of  a  low  ambition  1  Oh,  Paulinus,  Paulinus  !  how  I 
could  have  loved  you  !  Yet  what  do  I  say,  Theodore  ? 
your  dark  robe!  your  untrimmed  hair !  your  jewelless 
garments !     Tell  me,  boy,  tell  me,  where  is  your  father  V' 

"Alas,"  replied  Theodore,  "I  have  no  father.  He 
who  was  my  father  is  dead,  murdered  by  the  emperor !" 

The  living  lightnings  of  fierce  indignation  flashed  from 
the  priest's  proud  eyes  ;  and  after  pausing  for  a  moment, 
as  if  unable  to  give  voice  to  the  feelings  that  struggled 
in  his  breast  for  utterance,  he  shook  his  hand  towards 
the  sky,  to  which  his  eyes  were  also  raised,  exclaiming, 
"  Tyrant,  thou  hast  sealed  thy  fate  !"  then,  casting  him- 
self down  upon  a  couch,  he  drew  his  robe  over  his  head, 
and  Theodore  could  hear  him  weep.  The  youth  was 
moved ;  and  at  length  he  took  his  uncle's  hand  in  his, 
and  pressed  his  lips  upon  it,  saying,  "  I  knew  not  that 
you  loved  him  thus." 

"  Yes,  Theodore,  yes  !"  replied  the  bishop ;  "  I  did 
love  him,  belter  than  he  knew,  better  than  I  knew  my- 
self till  this  very  hour.  We  had  different  tempers,  we 
chose  opposite  paths,  we  held  opposite  opinions.  That 
which  1  thought  wisdom,  he  would  misname  craft ;  that 
which  I  held  as  just,  he  would  taunt  as  base.  We  were 
both,  perhaps,  ambitious,  but  in  different  ways ;  and  his 
ambition  led  him  to  contemn  mine ;  and  yet,  Theodore, 
and  yet  I  loved  him  better  than  any  other  human  being. 
W^hen  I  strove  for  eminence  in  the  state  which  I  had 
chosen,  when  I  raised  my  voice  and  made  the  proud  to 
bow,  the  sinner  to  tremble,  piety  to  kindle  into  enthusi- 
asm, and  devotion  to  reach  its  highest  pitch,  my  first  ima- 
gination was  what  Paulinus  would  think  ;  my  first  hope  to 
tower  above  his  low  opinion.  He  was  the  object  and  the 
end  of  many  of  my  best  and  greatest  actions :  almost  every 
thought  of  my  life  has  had  some  reference  to  him.    I 


ATTILA.  81 

have  disputed,  opposed,  quarrelled  with  him — nay,  even 
hated  him,  and  yet  belied  my  own  heart  by  loving  him 
still !" 

The  bishop  paused,  and,  crossing  his  arms  upon  his 
broad  chest,  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  sky,  and  remained 
for  sev^eral  minutes  in  gloomy  silence,  as  if  summoning 
up  before  the  eye  of  memory  all  the  visions  of  the  past. 
"  Theodore,"  he  continued  at  length,  speaking  in  a 
rambling,  musing  tone,  "  Theodore,  I  will  be  to  you  as 
a  father.  What  my  fate  may  be,  I  know  not ;  but  my 
brother's  murderer  shall  never  deliver  me  up  to  the 
power  of  the  barbarians.  Do  you  mark  me  ]  He  shall 
learn  that,  deprived  of  the  just  defence  of  my  sovereign, 
I  can  defend  myself.  But  it  matters  not!  You  are 
too  young  for  such  counsels !  Paulinus,  my  brother, 
thou  art  dead ;  but  thou  shalt  be  avenged.  The  cup  of 
wrath  wanted  but  one  drop  to  make  it  overflow,  and  thy 
murder  has  poured  an  ocean  into  it.  Now  tell  me,  The- 
odore— the  Lady  Flavia,  where  is  she  1  She  shall  be 
welcome  to  Margus.  Within  these  walls  my  power  is 
unlimited.  The  people  and  their  magistrates  are  equally 
my  flock  and  my  servants  ;  so  that  I  can  assure  a  wel- 
come to  those  who  seek  it.  Where  is  Flavia  ?  Why 
came  she  not  with  you  V 

"  Because  tidings  reached  us  every  day,"  replied 
Theodore,  "of  messengers  sent  from  Constantinople, 
bearing  orders  for  our  arrest — perhaps  for  our  death. 
Three  of  these  messengers,  we  learned,  had  taken  the 
way  to  Margus  ;  and  ere  we  could  venture  to  trust  our- 
selves here,  I  came  on  to  see  whether  the  power  of  my 
uncle  could  give  us  shelter  and  security," 

A  smile  of  bitter  meaning  gleamed  over  the  coun- 
tenance of  the  bishop.  "Three  messengers  !"  he  said 
— "  three  messengers,  bearing  orders  for  your  arrest  or 
death  !  No  later  than  yesterday  morning,  three  Byzan- 
tines— for  so  part  of  their  dress  bespoke  them — were 
found,  slain  by  the  Huns,  as  it  appeared,  near  Tricor- 
nium,  higher  up  the  river.  Perchance  these  have  been 
the  messengers,  and  have  delivered  their  just  and  clem- 
ent letters  to  the  wrong  hands." 

"  It  is  not  unlikely,"  replied  Theodore.  "  They  must 
have  been  near  that  town  early  in  the  morning  of  yes- 
terday ;  for  I  had  news  of  their  course,  and  crossed  the 
Danube  lest,  with  fresh  horses,  and  perhaps  a  guard 
from  that  station,  they  might  overtake  and  seize  me." 


82  ATTILA. 

"  They  have  been  seized  themselves,"  said  the  pre- 
late, setting  his  teeth  close.  "  The  smiter  has  been 
smitten  ;  the  messenger  of  death  has  found  death  him- 
self. But  how  escaped  jj'ou  the  Huns  yourself,  bold 
youth  1  For  the  last  month  they  have  made  excursions 
across  the  river,  destroying  wherever  they  came.  How 
was  it  that  you,  who  without  permission  entered  their 
own  land,  passed  through  them  in  perfect  safety]" 

"  In  truth  I  know  not,"  replied  Theodore,  "  unless  it 
was  that  I  began  by  speaking  to  the  ferrymen  in  the 
Alan  tongue." 

''  That  has  saved  you,"  replied  the  prelate ;  "  but 
now,  my  son,  we  must  not  lose  time.  These  are  days 
of  danger,  when  the  very  air  is  full  of  winged  death. 
We  must  not  leave  the  Lady  Flavia  and  her  children 
one  moment  longer  unprotected  than  is  needful.  Tell 
me  with  what  company  she  travels.  Ye  were  not,  I 
trust,  obliged  to  fly  in  such  haste  as  to  leave  all  your 
domestics  behind." 

"  Oh  no  !"  replied  Theodore  ;  "  the  tribune  Marcian, 
who  brought  us  the  sad  tidings  of  my  father's  fate,  and 
warned  us  of  our  own  danger,  took  care  that  all  the 
slaves  should  accompany  us  ;  and  saw  that  all  the  gold 
and  jewels,  either  belonging  to  Flavia,  or  which  my 
father  had  left  in  Illyria,  should  be  borne  with  us,  to 
escape  the  greedy  hands  of  Theodosius.  Thank  God, 
we  have  enough  to  support  us  with  dignity  till  this 
storm  be  blown  away,  and  the  sun  shines  once  more." 

"  Alas,  Theodore  !"  replied  the  priest,  "  seldom  is  it 
with  man  that  the  sun,  once  clouded,  ever  shines  again. 
The  bosom  of  nature,  torn  by  the  tempest,  soon  re- 
covers its  gayety  and  its  beauty,  or,  swept  by  the  shower, 
wakes  up  again  in  brighter  loveliness ;  but  the  heart  of 
man,  beaten  by  the  storms  of  fate,  never  regains  its 
freshness,  but  is  dulled  and  withered  by  every  drop 
that  falls,  and  revives  not  again  till  his  short  day  is 
closed.  But  I  will  send  out  to  greet  Flavia,  and  bid  her 
welcome.  Glad  am  I  that  she  brings  with  her  wealth 
and  attendants.  Not  that  I  could  not  myself  have  sup- 
plied her  with  all  she  might  need ;  for,  thanks  be  to 
Him  who  gave,  my  worldly  wealth  is  great — greater 
than  is  perhaps  good  for  securing  the  treasure  in  heav- 
en. Nevertheless,  all  our  wealth  may  not  be  more 
than  sufficient  for  the  purpose  that  I  have  in  view.  I 
will  send  out  to  find  her,  and  bring  her  hither." 


ATTILA.  83 

"Nay,  my  uncle,"  replied  Theodore,  "I  will  myself 
be  the  messenger.  She  will  not  give  herself  to  the 
guidance  of  any  one  if  I  do  not  return.  I  am  not 
weary ;  and  an  hour  or  two  of  rest  w^ould  enable  me, 
had  I  but  fresh  horses  for  myself  and  the  freedmen,  to 
seek  her  at  once.  This  bank  of  the  river,  by  the  death 
of  these  messengers,  is  now  free,  and  the  way  is 
shorter." 

His  uncle  made  some  opposition  on  the  plea  of  his 
nephew's  youth  and  yet  unconfirmed  strength,  but  that 
opposition  was  slight,  and  soon  overcome.  There  was, 
indeed,  an  eagerness,  a  haste,  an  impetuosity,  in  the 
bishop's  whole  demeanour,  which  betokened  a  keen 
and  ambitious  mind  struggling  with  difficulties  and  dan- 
gers which  he  feared  not,  but  estimated  at  their  true 
value.  He  seemed,  to  the  eyes  of  Theodore,  like  a  skil- 
ful swordsman  contending  Avith  a  multitude  of  enemies, 
with  all  his  energies  awake  and  active  to  avoid  every 
blow,  to  parry  every  thrust,  and  to  return  upon  his  as- 
sailants their  strokes  with  usury. 

When  at  length  he  consented  that  his  nephew  should 
go,  and  gave  him  into  the  hands  of  one  of  the  officers, 
with  directions  to  provide  for  his  repose  and  refresh- 
ment, what  was  the  impression  which  his  uncle's  con- 
duct had  made  upon  Theodore's  mind?  The  bishop 
had  been  kinder  than  he  expected ;  he  had  evinced  more 
affection  for  his  father,  more  deep  love  for  that  dead 
parent  whose  memory  was  enshrined  in  the  heart  of 
Theodore,  and  revered  as  the  relics  of  some  pure  and 
sainted  martyr ;  he  had  shown  more  depth  of  feeling, 
and  more  of  the  energy  of  talent,  than  the  youth  had 
been  taught  to  believe  he  could  display  ;  and  yet  The- 
odore was  not  satisfied.  The  diamond  touchstone  of  a 
pure  and  innocent  heart,  without  an  analysis,  without 
minute  investigation,  detected  at  once  the  alloy  which 
ran  tlirough  the  seeming  gold :  he  saw  that  there  was 
much  of  goodness,  he  saw  that  there  was  much  of 
power,  in  his  uncle's  character ;  but  there  wanted  the 
simplicity,  the  mildness,  the  humility  of  the  Christian 
priest :  there  were  strong  feelings  without  strong  prin- 
ciples, high  talents  without  high  honour,  and  through 
all  his  best  and  brightest  qualities  ran  a  veinof  briUiant 
selfishness,  stimulating  nearly,  in  appearance,  the  more 
precious  things  with  which  it  mixed  ;  but,  oh !  how  dif- 
ferent in  intrinsic  value. 


84  ATTILA. 

CHAPTER  X. 

THE    TREASON. 

It  was  night ;  but  no  bright  moon  compensated  for 
the  absence  of  the  greater  orb,  and  the  air  was  dark, 
though  the  sky  itself  shone  with  all  its  innumerable 
sparks  of  golden  light.  It  was  one  of  those  nights  in 
which  the  depth  of  the  heavens  becomes  apparent,  in 
which  each  separate  star  is  seen  hanging  distinct  and 
apart  from  all  the  rest,  a  lamp  of  everlasting  fire  in  the 
blue  profound  of  space.  The  lately  troubled  waters  of 
the  Danube  had  become  clear ;  and,  flowing  more  calmly, 
though  in  a  less  volume,  mirrored  the  splendid  pageantry 
of  heaven's  resplendent  host. 

Within  an  hour,  however,  after  the  full  setting  of  the 
sun  had  left  the  earth  to  the  dominion  of  the  night,  an- 
other light  than  that  of  the  stars  was  reflected  from  the 
waters  of  the  rolling  stream  at  the  distance  of  a  few 
miles  from  the  city  of  Margus.  The  glare  of  a  multi- 
tude of  torches  flickered  over  the  rolling  stream,  and 
cast  a  red,  unpleasing  light  over  the  rocks  and  trees 
amid  which  the  Roman  road  was  cut  from  Tricornium 
to  Margus.  That  light,  too,  shone  upon  the  anxious 
and  wearied  countenances  of  those  Avho,  a  little  more 
than  a  month  before,  we  have  seen  set  out  from  the 
spot  where  all  their  happy  memories  were  left  behind 
them  to  wander  forward  towards  lands  and  fortunes 
that  they  knew  not. 

A  change,  however,  had  been  effected  in  the  appear- 
ance of  many  of  that  party.  Young  as  he  was.  Theo- 
dore had  shown  a  wisdom  and  prudence  beyond  his 
years ;  a«d  as  soon  as  they  had  lost  the  escort  of  the 
tribune  Marcian,  on  the  frontiers  of  Moesia,  he  had  se- 
lected twenty  of  the  most  faithful  slaves,  and  had  be- 
sought Flavia  to  liberate  and  arm  them.  His  pretext 
was  that,  in  approaching  the  barbarian  countries,  many 
dangers  lay  upon  the  way ;  but  he  did  not  say  that  even 
against  the  authority  of  the  emperor  himself  those  arms 
might  not  be  used. 

Belated  by  the  length  and  fatiguing  nature  of  the  way, 
many  a  timid  glance  was  cast  by  Ildica  and  Eudochia 


ATTILA.  85 

towards  the  opposite  bank  of  the  stream,  where  lay, 
shrouded  in  its  dark  woods,  the  strange  and  dangerous 
country  of  the  Huns.  Many  an  apprehensive  inquiry, 
too,  went  from  hp  to  Up  among  the  women  slaves  that 
followed ;  and,  though  each  knew  that  the  other  was 
as  ignorant  of  the  land  through  which  they  were  pas- 
sing as  herself,  many  a  time  was  the  question  asked, 
"  How  far  is  it  now  to  Margus  V  meeting  still  with  the 
same  unsatisfactory  reply.  At  length  Theodore,  riding 
up  from  the  rear  of  the  line,  where  he  had  remained 
to  see  that  no  one  lingered  behind,  approached  the  side 
of  the  lectula  in  which  Ildica  was  borne,  and  said,  to 
the  no  small  joy  of  all  who  heard  him,  "  Lo  i  the  arch 
of  Trajan.     To  Margus  is  but  one  short  mile." 

That  mile  was  soon  accomplished  ;  and  at  the  gates 
of  the  city  they  were  met  by  persons  sent  on  purpose 
to  welcome  them,  both  by  the  magistrates  and  by  the 
bishop  of  the  town.  Such  friendly  greeting  in  such  a 
remote  spot,  the  sight  of  a  populous  and  wealthy  city, 
the  cheerful  sounds  and  objects  which  met  the  ear  and 
eye  in  the  streets,  served  to  revive  hope  in  the  bosoms 
of  that  weary  and  anxious  train,  and  to  recall  the  images 
of  warm  domestic  tranquillity,  which  had  been  banished 
during  their  dreary  journey  of  the  last  two  days  :  a 
house  had  been  prepared  for  them  not  far  from  the 
dwelling  of  the  bishop,  and  they  found,  waiting  their 
arrival,  all  those  ready  luxuries  which  the  skill  and  in- 
genuity of  the  most  pleasure-loving  nation  upon  earth 
had  devised  in  the  most  voluptuous  period  of  the  world's 
history.  Baths  were  prepared  ;  wine-cups  crowned 
with  garlands,  and  delicacies  from  remote  lands,  waited 
for  the  lip ;  the  softest  triclinia  surrounded  the  already 
spread  table  :  and  the  sound  of  sweet  music  was  breath- 
ing through  the  atrium  :  odours  floated  on  the  air ;  lights 
blazed  through  the  halls ;  and  when  at  length  Flavia, 
Ildica,  Eudochia,  Theodore,  and  Ammian  stood  in  the 
midst  of  that  enchanted  scene — far  from  their  enemies, 
with  a  place  of  certain  refuge  close  at  hand,  and  the 
long,  weary,  perilous  journey  accomplished  behind  them 
— feelings  of  joy  and  thankfulness,  great,  irrepressible, 
overpowering,  welled  up  from  the  deep  fountain  of  the 
heart,  and,  casting  themselves  into  each  other's  arms, 
they  wept. 

]Many  moments  passed  in  those  entrancing  feelings ; 
but  when,  at  length,  the  bishop  appeared  to  bid  them 

Vol.  I.— H 


86  ATTILA. 

welcome  to  a  city  over  wliich  his  eloquence  and  powers 
of  mind  had  given  him  greater  influence  than  even  the 
representative  of  the  imperial  authority  possessed, 
Flavia  had  again  resumed  her  calm  and  tranquil  dignity. 
He  would  not  sit  down  to  meat  with  the  guests  for 
whose  entertainment  he  had  provided  so  sumptuously, 
affecting  an  abstinence  which  might  or  might  not  be 
habitual ;  but  he  insisted  upon  waiting  in  a  neighbour- 
ing chamber  while  they  supped,  declaring  that  he  had 
matter  of  some  moment  to  communicate  to  the  Lady 
Flavia.  Simple  in  her  habits,  and  encouraging  simpli- 
city in  her  children,  Flavia  was  soon  prepared  to  give 
the  prelate  that  private  hearing  which  he  desired.  He 
led  her  accordingly  into  another  chamber,  while  Am- 
mian  sported  with  Eudochia;  and  Theodore,  seated 
beside  Ildica,  tasted  once  more  the  sweet  moments  of 
love. 

They  were  the  only  ones  that  they  had  known  since 
the  fatal  night  of  the  earthquake,  since  that  night  which 
had  witnessed  the  first  union  of  their  hearts  in  the  bond 
of  spoken  affection.  In  all  their  other  meetings — in 
every  other  communication  which  they  had  yet  had — 
danger  and  terror,  like  the  drav/n  sword  in  the  eastern 
feast,  had  hung  above  their  heads,  and  marred  the  tran- 
quillity of  their  mutual  hearts.  Now,  however,  when  ap- 
prehension was  drowned  in  hope,  they  felt,  and  oh,  how 
dear  was  the  feeling !  that  the  love,  which  had  grown 
up  in  joy  and  peace,  had  been  increased  and  strength- 
ened, brightened  and  perfected,  by  dangers  and  misfor- 
tunes. 

Theodore  held  Ildica's  graceful  hand  in  his,  and  gazed 
into  those  dark,  dark  lustrous  eyes,  reading  therein  a  reply 
to  all  the  intense  and  passionate  love  of  his  own  ardent 
heart ;  and  Ildica,  seated  on  the  couch  beside  him,  lifted 
the  long  sweet  curtains  of  those  gemlike  orbs  to  the 
countenance  of  her  lover,  and,  with  the  mingled  glance 
of  timidity  and  confidence,  seemed  to  pour  forth  the 
thanks  of  her  fervent  spirit,  not  only  for  all  that  he  had 
done  to  sooth,  to  comfort,  and  to  protect  her,  but  for 
all  the  unspoken  thoughts  of  love,  the  anxieties  and 
fears  concealed,  the  constant  remembrance  by  day,  the 
frequent  dreams  by  night,  for  all,  in  short,  which  her 
heart  told  her  that  his  had  felt  in  the  hours  of  pain  and 
care  through  which  they  had  so  lately  passed.  Low 
and  murmured  words  read  a  comment  on  those  looks. 


ATTILA.  87 

and  Theodore  and  Ildica  once  more  knew  an  hour  of 
intense  delijjht. 

A  large  chamber  intervened  between  that  in  which 
they  sat  and  that  to  which  her  mother  had  retired  to  hold 
conference  with  the  prelate,  and  the  veils  over  both  the 
doorways  were  drawn.  For  some  time  the  voice  of 
neither  speaker  was  heard,  but  at  length  the  tones  grew 
higher.  The  low  sweet  murmur  even  of  Flavia's  tongue 
found  its  way  to  the  hall  where  her  children  waited  her 
return,  and  the  high  but  harmonious  tones  of  the  elo- 
quent priest  sounded  loud,  and  sustained,  as  if  he  were 
using  all  his  powers  of  oratory  upon  some  great  and 
inspiring  theme.  No  distinct  words,  however,  were 
heard,  and  then  again,  after  a  time,  the  voices  once 
more  sank  low,  and  in  a  few  minutes  the  bishop  and 
the  lady  issued  forth  with  hasty  steps  and  agitated 
looks.  The  prelate  was  passing  rapidly  on,  without 
noticing  his  brother's  children,  as  if  carried  forward  by 
some  strong  excitement;  but, ere  he  reached  the  door- 
way, his  habitual  self-command  returned  in  a  degree, 
and,  turning  round  with  a  knitted  brow  but  an  air  of  dig- 
nity, he  raised  both  his  extended  hands,  saying,  "  Bless 
you,  my  children !  the  blessing  of  God  be  upon  this 
house,  and  all  that  it  contains."  That  done,  he  again 
turned  upon  his  way,  and  rapidly  quitted  the  apart- 
ment. 

In  the  meanwhile,  in  the  midst  of  that  rich  hall,  stood 
Flavia,  with  her  pale  cheek  flushed,  her  beautiful  eyes 
wild  and  thoughtful,  her  fair  hand  pressed  tight  upon 
her  broad,  statue-like  brow,  and  her  lip  murmuring 
words  which  sounded  vague  and  unmeaning,  because 
the  key  to  their  sad  interpretation  was  in  her  own 
bosom.  At  length  she  spoke  : — "  Hie  thee  to  repose,  Eu- 
dochia,"  she  said  ;  "  hie  thee  to  repose,  my  sweet  child. 
Ammian,  too,  seek  rest,  my  boy,  while  thou  mayst  find 
it.  Ye  have  had  a  weary  journey,  children,  and  God 
only  knows  when  it  may  be  renewed." 

With  some  light  and  fanciful  words  from  Ammian, 
breathing  the  spirit  of  bright  untiring  youth,  some  of 
the  slaves  were  summoned,  and  the  two  younger  mem- 
bers of  that  family,  whose  fate  we  have  so  long  fol- 
lowed, retired  to  sleep.  Flavia  listened  for  their  part- 
ing steps  ;  but  when  all  was  quiet,  she  caught  the  hand 
of  Theodore,  exclaiming, "  Oh,  my  son,  have  you  known 
and  consented  to  this  V 


88  ATTILA. 

"Have  I  known  what,  dear  mother'?"  demanded 
Theodore,  who  had  hitherto  mastered  his  surprise.  "  I 
have  consented  to  nothing  which  should  move  my 
mother  thus  painfully." 

"  I  beheved  it,  Theodore,  I  believed  it,"  rephed  Fla- 
via.  "  In  your  veins  and  in  mine  flows  the  blood  of 
those  Romans  who  thought  life  a  light  sacrifice  for  their 
countiy,  whose  gore  flowed  like  water  for  the  defence 
and  preservation  of  their  native  land  ;  and  I  am  sure  that 
if  j'^ou  be  your  father's  son,  no  danger,  no  injustice,  will 
induce  you  to  forget  your  duty,  and  bring  upon  the  coun- 
try of  your  birth  the  tide  of  barbarian  warfare  !  Is  it  not 
so,  my  son "?" 

"  It  is  !"  answered  Theodore  ;  "  but  what  mean  you, 
my  mother  1  We  understand  not  to  what  3^our  words 
apply." 

But  Flavia  continued,  turning  to  her  daughter  :  "  And 
you,  Ildica,"  she  said,  "  tell  me  that  you  are  my  child 
indeed — that  you  would  sacrifice  life,  and  all  life's  dear- 
est interests,  rather  than  take  part,  or  benefit  by,  or  in- 
stigate the  ruin  of  your  country." 

"  I  would,  my  mother,  I  would,"  replied  Ildica,  while 
her  person  seemed  to  grow  taller,  and  her  resemblance 
to  her  mother  increased  under  the  excitement  of  the 
moment.  "  I  would  sacrifice  life,  and,  what  is  far 
dearer  than  life,  I  would  sacrifice  him,"  and  she  laid  her 
hand  upon  the  arm  of  Theodore.  "  I  would  rather 
see  him  die  in  defence  of  his  country  than  live  and 
prosper  by  its  fall.  Oh,  my  mother,  you  have  judged 
your  child  rightly  ;  the  blood  of  my  father,  spilled  by 
the  enemies  of  our  native  land,  throbs  in  his  daughter's 
heart ;  and  even  this  weak  hand,  were  there  none  other 
to  assert  our  country,  might  yet  strike  one  blow  in  her 
defence." 

"  My  noble  child,"  cried  Flavia,  throwing  her  arms 
around  her  daughter,  "  thou  art  worthy  of  thy  race. 
Theodore,  what  think  you  that  your  uncle  proposes  to 
me  to  do  1  To  throw  wide  the  gates  of  Margus  to  the 
barbarians,  to  open  the  way  for  the  Huns  into  the  heart 
of  the  empire,  to  buy  revenge  for  your  father's  death 
and  safety  for  ourselves  by  the  desolation  of  our  na- 
tive land,  the  destruction  and  ruin  of  our  friends,  and 
the  massacre  of  our  fellow-countrymen!  Shame  on 
such  degenerate  Romans  !     Shame,  shame  upon  them 


ATTILA.  89 

to  all  eternity  !  Oh  God,  oh  God !  where  are  thy  thun- 
derbolts r' 

Theodore  stood,  for  a  moment,  as  one  stupified  by 
the  strange  and  fearful  tidings  he  had  heard ;  and  fixing 
his  eyes  upon  Flavia's  face,  he  gazed  upon  her  with  an 
expression  of  inquiring  doubt,  which  showed  how  far 
he  was  from  any  participation  in  the  schemes  or  feel- 
ings of  his  uncle.  "  My  mother,"  he  said  at  length, 
"  let  us  go  hence.  This  is  no  refuge  for  us.  Did  he 
think,  by  showing  us  here  an  image  of  that  splendour 
and  comfort  which  we  so  long  possessed,  and  so  lately 
lost — did  he  think  to  blind  our  eyes,  and  weaken  our 
hearts,  and  destroy  our  virtue  ]  My  choice,  oh  my 
mother,  is  made;  give  me  honour  and  misery,  if  virtue 
cannot  secure  peace.     Let  us  go  hence." 

"  At  sunrise  to-morrow,"  replied  Flavia,  "  we  will 
depart ;  for  I  much  fear  that  he  told  me  not  all ;  I  doubt 
that  his  dealing  with  the  Huns  is  far  advanced." 

"Why  not  at  once,  thenV  demanded  Theodore; 
"to-morrow's  daylight  maybe  too  late." 

Flavia  turned  her  eyes  upon  her  daughter,  who  under- 
stood the  glance,  and  answered  at  once,  "  My  mother,  I 
can  go,  though  I  am  wearied  :  were  it  not  better  to  drop 
by  the  wayside  than  risk  our  future  peace  1" 

But  Theodore  interposed  :  "  No,  no,"  he  said  ;  "  an 
hour  before  daylight  will  be  time  enough.  The  slaves 
are  wearied  beyond  all  endurance ;  and  perhaps,  also, 
were  we  to  attempt  it  to-night,  the  guards  might  become 
suspicious,  and  stay  us  at  the  gates.  To-morrow  it  will 
seem  more  natural.  The  wearied  soldiers,  at  that  hour, 
will  let  us  pass  without  inquiry,  and,  following  the  course 
of  the  river,  Ave  can  pass  through  Noricum,  and  take 
refuge  either  among  my  kindred  of  the  Alani,  or  under 
the  strong  shield  pf  ^Etius,  in  Gaul,  from  whose  protec- 
tion neither  weak  emperor  dare  attempt  to  snatch  us. 
Rest  thee,  Ildica  I"  he  added,  throwing  his  arms  around 
her :  "  rest  thee,  my  beloved ;  and  rest  thee,  too,  dear 
mother  !  I  will  see  all  prepared,  and  ready  to  set  out  an 
hour  before  the  dawning  of  the  day." 

"  And  thou,  my  poor  Theodore,"  said  Flavia,  "  thou 
hast  no  rest !" 

"  Am  I  not  a  Roman?"  was  the  youth's  reply. 

On  the  next  morning — while  the  city  of  Margus  was 
still  buried  in  slumber,  and  all  vacant  were  those  streets 
so  lately  thronged  with  the  gay  unthinking  crowd  pur- 

H2 


90   ■  ATTILA. 

suing  with  light  heart  the  hiitterfly  pleasure,  and  never 
dreaming  that  fate,  like  a  lion,  was  following  fast  upon 
its  track — the  same  train  which  the  night  before  had 
entered  the  gate  with  joy,  now  passed  them  again  with 
sorrow,  but  without  regret.  Theodore  had  first  pre- 
sented himself,  and  had  held  a  momentary  conversation 
with  a  soldier  on  guard.  The  gates  had  then  been 
opened  by  the  janitor  of  the  night,  and  the  slaves,  who 
led  the  train,  passed  out.  Ildica  and  Eudochia  followed ; 
but  as  the  litter  of  Flavia  was  borne  forward,  Theodore 
approached  its  side,  and  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  They  de- 
mand that  one  of  us  at  least  should  stay  to  give  account 
of  our  departure  either  to  the  bishop  or  the  magistrates  ; 
I  will  keep  Cremera  and  some  others  with  me.  In  the 
meantime  go  you  on,  and  I  will  join  you  speedily." 

Flavia  turned  an  anxious  look  upon  him,  but  he  added, 
in  a  still  lower  tone,  "  Fear  not :  they  dare  not  detain 
me ;"  and,  motioning  to  the  slaves  Avho  bore  the  litter 
to  proceed,  he  drew  back  under  the  archway. 

Their  course  lay  to  the  westward ;  but  as  Theodore 
turned  towards  the  city,  a  faint  gray  light  hung  over  the 
massy  towers  and  columns  of  Margus,  showing  that  the 
dawn  of  day  was  fast  approaching.  With  a  slow  pace, 
and  a  sad  but  resolute  heart,  Theodore  returned  to  the 
house  which  had  been  assigned  to  them  as  their  dwel- 
ling ;  and,  after  a  momentary  pause,  turned  his  steps  on 
foot  to  the  mansion  of  the  bishop.  The  gates  were  al- 
ready open,  some  of  the  slaves  at  work,  and  the  light 
of  the  now  dawning  day  was  seen  streaming  faint  and 
cold  tlirough  the  long  range  of  vestibules  and  halls  from 
an  open  archway,  beyond  which  appeared  various  groups 
of  statues,  fountains,  and  pillars,  ornamenting  a  court- 
yard. Like  all  dependants  on  the  great  and  powerful, 
keen  to  perceive  who  were  in  favour,  who  were  influ- 
ential with  their  lords,  the  slaves,  who,  a  few  days  be- 
fore, had  obstructed  the  access  of  Theodore  to  his  uncle, 
hastened  to  pay  their  court  to  one  whom  they  now 
knew,  and  besought  him,  with  officious  civility,  to  re- 
pose himself  there  till  the  bishop  should  have  risen  to 
receive  him. 

The  mind  of  Theodore,  however,  was  not  in  a  state 
to  permit  him  to  take  even  corporeal  rest ;  and  he  re- 
plied that  he  would  walk  forth  into  the  court  and  amuse 
himself  with  the  statues  and  fountains  till  his  uncle  was 
prepared  to  receive  him.     The  cold  and  absent  tone  in 


ATTILA.  91 

which  he  spoke  checked  all  intrusion ;  and,  meditating 
on  his  wayward  fate,  he  walked  forth  alone,  now  paus- 
ing as  if  to  contemplate  some  beautiful  piece  of  sculp- 
ture, now  gazing,  as  if  with  pleased  attention,  on  the 
clear  waters  that,  welling  from  the  rocky  ground  on 
which  the  city  was  built,  sparkled  round  the  court  in 
innumerable  graceful  urns  and  vases,  but  with  his  mind, 
in  fact,  employed  on  matters  far  different  from  the  light 
elegances  and  calm  pleasures  of  life. 

Thus  absent  and  musing,  he  went  on  to  a  spot  where 
a  long  flight  of  steps  led  down  to  the  bottom  of  that 
terraced  garden  which  he  had  beheld  from  above  in  his 
iirst  conference  with  his  uncle.  Scarcely  conscious  of 
what  he  did,  Theodore  slowly  descended  the  steps,  and 
entered  one  of  the  long  paved  walks  at  the  very  low- 
est part  of  the  garden.  The  right  side  was  flanked  by 
a  strong  wall,  in  which  were  two  or  three  doorways 
leading,  as  it  would  seem,  to  the  pomaerium,  or  open 
space  between  the  town  and  its  fortified  walls — for  the 
house  itself  was  one  of  the  farthest  from  the  centre  of 
Margus.  Scarcely  had  he  entered  that  path,  however, 
when  the  sound  of  steps  made  him  raise  his  eyes,  and 
lie  beheld  before  him  four  dark  figures — to  see  which, 
in  that  place,  caused  him  suddenly  to  pause,  and  lay  his 
hand  upon  his  sword.  Ere  he  could  distinguish  their 
faces,  by  the  general  aspect  of  their  forms,  he  perceived 
that  they  were  barbarians,  free,  and  in  a  Roman  city  at 
that  early  hour.  A  moment  more  showed  him  that, 
while  three  of  the  party  had  mingled  their  barbarian 
dress  of  skins  with  jewels  and  ornaments  of  gold  and 
silver,  the  fourth,  who  preceded  the  others  as  they  ad- 
vanced, retained  the  original  simple  habit  of  his  nation, 
being  clothed  in  plain  but  valuable  furs  and  dark  cloth, 
but  of  exceeding  fineness.  Those  who  followed  bore 
about  them  many  strange  and  barbarian  arms,  but  he 
who  preceded  had  nothing  but  a  broad  and  heavy 
sword,  composed  solely  of  iron  from  its  hilt  to  its  scab- 
bard. In  him  Theodore  instantly  recognised  the  Hun 
who  had  been  his  guide  on  his  last  day's  journey  through 
the  Dacian  territory,  and  the  same  unaccountable  feel- 
ing passed  through  his  bosom  which  he  had  experienced 
on  beholding  him  before.  He  saw  too  well,  however, 
that  Flavia's  suspicions  w^ere  correct,  and  that  his  uncle 
had  already  plunged  irretrievably  into  those  dangerous 
intrigues  which  were  destined  to  prove,  not  only  the 


92  ATTILA. 

ruin  of  himself  and  of  the  city  which  yielded  itself  so 
tamely  and  entirely  to  his  government,  but  far  beyond 
that,  to  his  whole  native  land,  and  indignation  for  a  mo- 
ment niastered  all  otlier  sensations. 

"What  doest  thou  here,  barbarian  1"  was  his  only 
greeting  when  they  met. 

"  What  is  that  to  thee,  youth  V  rejoined  the  Hun, 
with  a  calm,  haughty  smile,  such  as  may  play  upon  a 
father's  lip  when  he  reproves — though  amused  thereby 
— tlie  frowardness  of  some  spoiled  child.  "  But  speak 
thine  own  langnage,"  he  continued,  in  a  corrupt  dialect 
of  the  Latin  tongue  ;  "  speak  thine  own  language  :  weak 
and  insignificant  as  it  is.  it  will  cover  from  the  ears  of 
those  who  hear  us  such  light  words  as  those  thou  hast 
just  spoken." 

"  My  words  were  not  light,  Hun,"  rephed  Theodore  : 
"  for  every  Roman  may  av(<11  demand  what  thou  doest 
here,  when  he  meets  with  armed  barbarians  in  the  heart 
of  a  Roman  city." 

"We  are  armed,"  said  the  Hun,  "but  we  are  few. 
What  I  do  here  is  naught  to  thee  ;  but  if  thou  wilt  listen 
to  me,  my  coming  may  do  thee  service.  I  love  thee 
for  thy  mother's  father,  and  for  her  brother.  They  were 
my  friends  ;  and  he  who  would  be  terrible  to  those  who 
hate  him  must  do  good  deeds  to  those  who  love  him. 
Know  that  the  Roman  empire  trembles  to  its  fall.  At- 
tila  the  King  has  said  it,  and  it  will  come  to  pass.  He 
has  said,  '  1  will  sweep  it  as  a  cloud  sweeps  the  tops  of 
the  forest.  1  will  pass  over  it  as  a  storm,'  he  has  de- 
clared, '  from  one  part  even  unto  the  other ;  and  I  will 
not  leave  it  so  long  as  one  Roman  stands  up  before  me  to 
oppose  me.'  Attila  the  King  has  said  it,  and  his  words 
shall  be  made  true.  Nevertheless,  as  thou  art  one  of 
those  who  think  that  there  is  yet  vigour  in  weakness 
and  strength  in  Rome,  I  bid  thee  consider  what  will  be 
thy  fate  even  should  thine  emperor  be  successful  in  re- 
sistance. The  blood  of  thy  father  is  upon  his  head ; 
thou  fleest  from  his  vengeance,  and  he  seeks  thy  life. 
Thus  much  have  I  learned  from  thee  and  from  thine  un- 
cle. Should  Attila  be  successful,  and  thou  not  of  his 
friends,  thou  perishest.  Should  Theodosius  triumph, 
thinkest  thou  that  he  who  has  trodden  upon  the  mighty 
will  spare  the  weak  ?" 

"  Hun !"  said  Theodore,  taking  a  step  forward  to  pass 
him,  "  could  my  blood,  poured  forth  on  the  banks  of 


ATTILA.  93 

yonder  river,  like  the  dragon's  teeth  of  Cadmus,  raise 
up  a  host  of  armed  men  to  defend  my  native  land 
against  thee  and  against  thy  king,  I  would  hold  my 
throat  to  the  knife,  and  die  with  gratitude  and  joy ! 
Thinkest  thou  that  such  a  one  can  be  impelled  by  fear, 
or  led  by  hope,  to  serve  thee  and  to  betray  his  native 
land  I" 

"  I  think,"  replied  the  Hun,  "  that  thou  mightst  be  a 
faithful  friend  to  a  worthier  monarch  than  thine  own. 
Fare  thee  well !  and  remember,  as  I  told  thee  when  last 
we  met :  in  future  times,  when  the  hands  of  fate  shall 
have  shaken  from  their  places  thrones  and  empires, 
and  have  changed  the  fate  of  little  as  well  as  great, 
shouldst  thou  need  protection,  thou  wilt  find  it  at  the 
name  of  Onegisus.  Now,  forward  to  thine  uncle ;  I 
must  hence." 

Without  returning  to  the  court,  Theodore  sprang  up  the 
terraces  of  the  garden  towards  the  chamber  where  he 
had  before  conferred  with  the  bishop.  His  hurried  step 
caught  the  prelate's  attention ;  and,  ere  Theodore  had 
reached  the  top,  his  uncle's  majestic  form,  clothed 
in  his  splendid  robes,  appeared  in  the  doorway  above, 
gazing  down  to  see  who  it  was  that  approached  so  rap- 
idly. 

"  Theodore,"  he  exclaimed,  while  an  expression  of 
pleasure  and  expectation  lighted  up  his  features,  "  I 
trust  you  are  come  to  bear  me  good  tidings,  and  that 
the  Lady  Flavia  is  not  so  rashly  obstinate  as  when  last 
I  saw  her," 

"  Far  from  it !"  said  Theodore,  gravely,  "  I  have  come 
but  to  tell  you  that  we  remain  Romans  to  our  death. 
All  who  entered  the  gates  last  night,  except  myself  and 
a  few  slaves,  are  by  this  time  an  hour's  journey  on  their 
way  to  Noricum." 

"  Rash  woman !  what  has  she  done  V  cried  the  bishop, 
clasping  his  hands ;  "  she  is  lost,  she  is  lost !  Fly,  The- 
odore, quick  !  Fly  like  the  lightning  !  Bring  her  back 
hither ;  or,  if  she  will  not  come,  lead  her  on  the  road  to 
the  south,  anywhere  but  the  road  she  has  taken." 

Theodore  gazed  upon  the  agitated  countenance  of  his 
uncle  in  amazement ;  but  the  bishop  continued,  more 
vehemently  than  before,  "  Fly !  do  I  not  tell  you  to  fly  1 
Lose  not  a  moment !  breathe  not  a  word  1  Away,  as  if 
a  lion  were  behind  you.  The  Huns  are  already  across 
the  river,  on  the  very  road  she  has  taken.     If  she  will 


94  ATTILA. 

not  return  hither,  seek  fur  no  highway,  look  for  no  easy- 
path,  but  pUnige  at  once  into  the  country,  and  hurry  to 
the  southward,  making  not  a  moment's  pause !" 

Witliout  a  word  of  reply,  the  youth  darted  through 
the  vacant  rooms,  passed  the  gates  of  the  dwelling,  the 
Basilica,  and  the  Forum  ;  reached  the  house  where  the 
horses  and  slaves  remained,  sprang  upon  his  charger's 
back,  and,  followed  by  the  rest,  dashed  out  towards  the 
walls  of  the  city.  The  gates  were  open,  but,  to  his 
surprise,  no  soldiers,  no  gatekeepers  were  now  there. 
The  guard  had  been  withdrawn  for  purposes  which  he 
too  well  divined ;  and  passing  out  unquestioned,  he  hur- 
ried on  with  the  same  frantic  speed  in  search  of  those 
he  loved. 


CHAPTER  XI, 

THE    SEARCH. 

Hurrying  on  without  pause,  and  impressed  with  but 
the  one  overpowering  thought  of  the  danger  of  all  he 
loved  on  earth,  Theodore  soon  reached  the  banks  of  the 
Danube,  and  gazed  onward  upon  the  road,  which  for 
several  miles  lay  straight  before  him.  But  nothing  met 
his  sight,  either  to  raise  his  hopes  or  increase  his  ap- 
prehensions ;  all  was  open  and  clear,  and  not  even  a 
cart  or  a  beast  of  burden  from  the  country,  no,  not  a 
single  peasant  bringing  in  his  basket  of  fruit  or  flowers, 
arrested  the  eye,  as  it  wandered  down  the  long,  straight 
avenue.  A  pair  of  enormous  eagles,  whirling  slowly 
round,  high  up  in  the  blue  morning  sky,  was  the  only 
sight  of  animated  being  that  presented  itself ;  the  sing- 
ing of  a  light  bird,  too  lowly  and  insignificant  to  fear 
those  majestic  tyrants  of  the  skies,  and  the  dull  roar  of 
the  great  river,  were  the  only  sounds  that  broke  upon 
the  ear. 

Hope  sets  her  quick  foot  wherever  fear  leaves  the 
space  vacant ;  and  Theodore  trusted  that  Ildica  might 
have  passed  on  ere  the  Huns  had  crossed  the  river. 
He  paused  not,  however,  at  the  voice  of  the  siren,  but 
still  urged  on  his  horse,  gazing  anxiously  forward,  and 


ATTILA.  95 

listening  for  every  sound.  The  five  freedmen  who  had 
remained  Mith  him  followed  as  fast  as  they  could,  but 
the  superior  power  and  swiftness  of  the  yoimg  Roman's 
charger  left  a  short  but  increasing  interval  between 
them.  That  interval  was  less,  perhaps,  than  half  a 
mile,  when  Theodore  reached  the  w^ooded  rocks,  round 
whose  immoveable  bases  the  road  was  forced  to  wind ; 
but  his  faithful  Cremera  saw  him  disappear  behind  them 
with  apprehension,  and  urged  on  his  horse  with  eager 
haste,  till  he  and  the  rest  had  also  turned  the  angle  of 
the  rocks,  and  once  more  beheld  his  master. 

Theodore  was  now  at  less  than  a  hundred  yards'  dis- 
tance :  he  had  dismounted,  and,  with  the  charger  stand- 
ing beside  him,  was  kneeling  over  some  object  which 
had  attracted  his  attention  on  the  road.  When  the 
freedmen  came  up,  they  too  sprang  to  the  ground  to 
look  upon  the  sight  which  had  stopped  him.  It  was  the 
body  of  one  of  their  companions,  who  had  been  selected, 
like  themselves,  to  bear  arms  upon  the  dangerous  jour- 
ney they  had  been  forced  to  undertake.  His  spear  was 
in  his  hand,  with  the  iron  red  with  blood,  and  in  his 
heart  was  fixed  a  reed  arrow,  such  as  some  of  the 
Scythian  nations  used  in  their  wars. 

Theodore  pointed  in  silence  to  the  corpse,  gazed  for 
a  moment  round,  and  followed  with  his  haggard  eye  the 
long  track  of  the  road,  apparently  to  discover  if  any  new 
object  of  horror  lay  before  him ;  and  then,  after  once 
more  looking  sternly  upon  the  dead  man,  he  shook  his 
sword  from  the  sheath,  sprang  again  upon  his  horse, 
and  galloped  on  his  way.  As  he  went,  however,  his 
eye  searched  anxiousl)''  on  the  ground  for  further  traces 
regarding  the  too  evident  fate  which  had  befallen  Flavia 
and  her  company ;  nor  was  he  without  finding  such 
marks  ;  the  ground  was  dented  and  beaten  with  horses' 
feet,  and  stains  of  blood  here  and  there  showed  that 
there  had  been  a  contest  of  a  fierce  and  desperate  kind 
on  the  spot  over  which  he  passed. 

Scarcely  three  hundred  yards  from  the  place  where 
lay  the  body  of  the  freedman,  a  small  road  turned  off 
to  the  left,  leading  down  through  the  woods,  with  which 
that  part  of  the  country  was  thickly  strewn,  to  the  banks 
of  the  river  Margus,  higher  up  than  the  city.  At  that 
point,  too,  the  traces,  which  had  hitherto  marked  so 
plainly  the  course  Avhich  those  he  sought  for  had  pur-  . 
sued,  no  longer  afforded  him  a  clew;  for,  separating  as 


96  ATTILA. 

it  were  into  two  distinct  streams,  the  footmarks  of  the 
horses  went  on  in  either  track,  leading,  on  the  one 
hand,  towards  Tricornium,  and,  on  the  other,  into  the 
thirdy-peopled  and  half-cultivated  country  towards  11- 
lyria. 

He  paused  in  doubt ;  and  the  agony  of  impatience, 
even  at  a  moment's  delay,  was  only  equalled  by  that  of 
apprehension  lest  he  should  mistake  the  path,  as  he 
turned  from  one  to  the  other.  However,  the  sun,  just 
rising  above  the  trees  that  fringed  the  bank,  suddenly 
poured  a  stream  of  light  upon  the  left-hand  road,  and 
the  rays  caught  and  glittered  on  some  shining  substance, 
which  lay  at  about  a  bowshot  distance.  Theodore 
darted  forward,  and  his  doubts  were  removed  at  once  ; 
for  that  which  accidentally  flashed  back  the  sunshine 
to  his  eye  was  the  collar  of  emeralds  which  he  himself 
had  borne  to  Ildica  from  his  father  Paulinus.  He  hes- 
itated no  longer,  but  hurried  on;  and,  ere  he  had  pro- 
ceeded more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  the  sound  of 
voices  and  the  neigh  of  horses  told  him  that  his  speed 
had  brought  him  near  to  those  he  had  pursued. 

What  was  his  purpose  1  he  himself  scarcely  knew  :  it 
was  vague,  undefined,  uncertain  :  it  might  be  to  save,  it 
might  be  to  live  or  die  with  those  whom  he  loved. 

The  spot  where  he  then  stood  was  a  wooded  covert, 
near  the  brow  of  a  high  hill,  which,  sloping  down  on 
the  other  side  beyond  him,  left  the  forest  on  its  summit, 
and  stretched  into  natural  meadows,  covering  the  bot- 
tom of  a  sweet  and  tranquil  valley.  He  knew  not,  how- 
ever, what  was  the  scene  beyond  the  brow;  but  he 
heard  voices  and  barbarian  tongues,  and  was  hurrying 
on  to  meet  the  fate  in  store  for  him,  whatever  that 
store  might  be,  when  the  figure  of  a  woman  darted 
through  the  wood  ;  and  Flavia,  pale  and  sad  as  a  statue 
on  a  tomb,  stood  by  his  horse's  side,  and  threw  her 
arms  up  to  clasp  him  as  he  sat. 

"  My  children  !  my  children !"  she  cried  ;  "  oh,  Theo- 
dore !  my  children  are  in  the  power  of  the  Huns  !" 

"  Where  T"  demanded  Theodore  ;  and  his  fierce  and 
flashing  eye,  and  knit  determined  brow,  told  that  he 
was  prepared  to  do  those  deeds  which  were  once  com- 
mon among  the  children  of  his  native  land  :  "  where  V* 
he  demanded,  and  it  was  the  only  Avord  he  spoke. 

"  Down  in  yon  meadow,"  replied  Flavia,  "  over  the 
brow  of  the  hill.    But  listen :  oh  God  !  they  might  yet 


ATTILA.  97 

be  saved  if  we  had  but  fleet  horses :  there  are  few  of 
the  barbarians  with  them;  those  few  are  reveHincr  at 
their  morning  meal :  the  rest  are  gone  to  pursue^he 
party  from  Tricornium." 

"  What  party  ]"  cried  Theodore  :  "  is  there  a  chance 
of  any  aidT' 

"  Alas,  no !  my  son,"  she  replied,  in  the  same  rapid 
tone  ;  "  alas,  no  !  We  met  a  centurion  and  his  soldiers 
commg  from  Tricornium  to  Margus,  and  while  we  were 
in  parley  with  him,  the  barbarians  suddenly  fell  upon  us, 
like  a  cloud  of  brown  locusts  upon  the  fertile  land ' 
there  was  resistance  and  strife,  and  I  sought  to  flee  with 
the  children.  I  know  not  how  it  happened ;  for  it  was 
like  strugghng  with  the  waves  of  a  tempestuous  sea 
all  terrible,  and  nothing  distinct ;  but  at  length,  when  I 
could  discern  anything,  I  found  myself  alone,  defended 
by  Acer,  the  freedman,  against  a  single  Hun,  who  lin- 
gered behind  to  seize  upon  me  as  his  prey,  while  the 
greater  body  of  his  companions  pursued  the  centurion 
along  the  high  road,  and  a  few  hurried  down  hither  with 
their  captives  and  plunder.  Though  wounded,  the 
freedman  defended  me  as  if  he  had  been  a  Roman,  and 
struck  the  fierce  barbarian  Avith  his  spear  a  blow' that 
made  him  fly;  but,  as  he  galloped  off",  he  drew  his  bow, 
and  in  a  moment  an  arrow  was  in  Acer's  heart.  I  was 
alone ;  my  children  were  in  captivity,  and  I  followed 
hither ;  for  I  had  only  sought  to  save  myself  with  them, 
but  not  to  live  without  them." 

Theodore  sprang  to  the  ground.  "  My  mother,"  he 
said,  "I  will  deliver  them  or  die;"  and  making  the 
!  freedmen  dismount,  he  chose  four  to  follow  him,  leaving 
the  Arab  Cremera  to  remain  with  Flavia.  His  orders 
were  few,  but  they  were  distinct.  "When  Eudochia, 
Ammian,  Ildica,  are  here,"  he  said,  addressing  the  freed- 
man, "  mount  them  and  the  Lady  Flavia  on  the  horses : 
speed  back  to  Margus,  and  bid  the  bishop  save  them  at 
any  price.  Should  you  find  the  city  in  the  hands  of  the 
Huns,  pronounce  the  name  of  Onegisus  ;  and  when  you 
have  found  him,  tell  him  that  the  youth  Theodore,  to 
whom  he  made  a  promise,  claims  his  protection  for  those 
who  are  most  dear  to  him  on  earth.  Mother,"  he  con- 
tinued, embracing  Flavia,  "  mother,  I  go  !" 

Flavia  gazed  mournfully  in  that  sad,  firm  countenance. 
"  Theodore,"  she  said,  pressing  him  in  her  arms,  "  The- 
odore, thou  goest  to  destruction !" 

Vol.  I.~I 


98  ATTILA. 

He  made  no  reply,  but  wrung  her  hand ;  and,  waving 
to  the  slaves  he  had  chosen  to  follow,  burst  from  her 
embrace  and  hurried  over  the  hill. 

In  another  moment  the  resting-place  of  the  Huns 
was  before  his  eyes,  though  the  branches  of  the  trees 
still  waved  between  him  and  them,  affording  conceal- 
ment while  he  observed  them.     He  paused  but  for  an 
instant,  but  that  instant  sufficed  to  show  him  the  barba- 
rians scattered  on  both  sides  of  the  stream,  gathered  in* 
groups  of  eight  or  ten,  with  their  small  rugged  horses 
feeding  beside  them,  and  their  weapons  cast  upon  the 
turf  whereon  they  sat.     The  heart  of  Theodore  rose  to 
see  that  they  were  so  few,  for  not  more  than  two  hun-  | 
dred  were  there ;  and  the  number  of  the  captives,  who  J 
sat  apart,  with  bending  heads,  and  the  self-neglecting 
look  of  utter  despair,  had  their  arms  been  free,  might 
have  offered  no  slight  support  in  the  bold  attempt  he  ' 
was  about  to  make.     "  Our  object,"  he  said,  turning  to 
those  who  followed  him,  "  is  to  free  Ildica,  Eudochia, 
and  Ammian.     Let  whoever  reaches  them  first  cut  their  i 
bonds,  and  bid  them  fly  up  the  road  over  the  hill.     Then 
free  your  fellows,  and  oppose  the  pursuit  of  the  barba- 
rians !     Thou  art  pale,"  he  added,  addressing  one  of  the 
freedmen ;  "  thy  lips  are  bloodless  ;  if  thy  heart  be  faint, 
turn  back." 

"  Thou  goest  to  death,"  replied  the  man,  firmly, "  and 
I  will  go  with  thee.     I  feel  that  death  is  horrible  ;  but  it   I 
must  be  borne  once,  and  1  can  bear  it  now." 

"  Follow,  then !"  said  Theodore,  "but  cautiously, under 
the  covering  of  the  trees,  till  we  are  close  upon  them." 

It  was  a  great,  a  mighty,  a  sublime  thing,  that  deter- 1 
mined  resolution  unto  death,  which  possessed  the  young 
enthusiastic  Roman ;  which  did  away  boyhood,  and 
made  him  at  once  a  strong  and  valiant  man,  in  vigour, 
in  powers,  in  intellect,  in  energy.  To  die  for  her  he 
loved;  to  ransom  her  from  the  barbarians  at  the  price 
of  his  own  blood ;  to  see  her  for  the  last  lime  as  her  de- 
liverer, and  to  know,  in  dying,  that  his  hand  had  freed 
her,  was  the  last  aspiration,  the  only  remaining  hope 
that  rested  with  Theodore,  of  all  the  many  sweet  and  ■ 
probable  dreams  of  happiness  which  haunted  his  fancy 
but  one  short  month  before. 

Calmly  and  deliberately  he  led  the  way  through  the 
trees  to  a  spot  where,  with  irregular  sweeps,  the  forest 
met  the  meadow.    Within  fifty  yards  sat  Ildica  and  her 

#  I 


ATTILA.  99 

companions,  mourning,  like  the  enslaved  Hebrews,  their 
captivity,  by  the  banks  of  the  strange  vi^aters.  Beside 
them,  as  a  sort  of  guard — though  the  bonds  by  which 
they  were  tied  rendered  their  unassisted  escape  impos- 
sible— lay  spread  upon  the  grass  some  ten  or  twelve  of 
the  dark  and  filthy  barbarians,  with  their  rude  and  fright- 
ful countenances,  scarred  with  ancient  gashes  and  sallow 
with  long-accustomed  dirt,  distorted  by  wild  merriment, 
as  they  feasted  near  the  first  captives  whom  they  had 
taken  in  their  invasion  of  the  Roman  state.  At  the  feet 
of  one  who  sat  closest  to  the  prisoners  lay  a  gory  hu- 
man head,  the  short  cut  hair  and  beard  of  which  showed 
that  it  had  belonged  to  no  barbarian  form ;  and — while 
Theodore,  pausing  behind  the  trees,  let  his  eye  run  over 
the  other  groups  of  Huns,  as  they  w^ere  scattered  about 
at  a  greater  distance,  some  eating  and  drinking,  some 
playing  with  their  unbridled  horses,  some  erecting  tents 
of  skins,  as  if  their  numbers  were  soon  to  be  greatly 
increased — the  fierce  barbarian  ended  some  speech  in 
his  own  tongue  by  a  wild  and  ringing  laugh,  and,  with  a 
stroke  of  his  foot,  kicked  the  trunkless  head  into  the 
river. 

It  was  the  signal  for  his  own  destruction.  "  On  !" 
cried  Theodore,  "  on !"  and,  with  the  sudden  stoop  of 
the  eagle  on  its  prey,  he  bounded  forward  upon  the  bar- 
barian. The  Hun  started  on  his  feet,  but  that  instant 
the  sword  of  the  young  Roman  cleft  him  to  the  eyes ; 
and  rolling  back  in  the  convulsive  agonies  of  daath,  he 
plunged  into  the  river,  where  he  had  so  lately  cast  the 
head  of  his  adversary. 

Scarcely  was  the  blow  struck  when  it  was  followed 
by  another,  which  laid  a  second  Hun  prostrate  and  dis- 
abled at  his  feet :  two  more  fell  before  the  spears  of  the 
freedmen  ;  and  the  rest,  conceiving  that  much  greater 
numbers  of  enemies  must  be  approaching,  fled  to  their 
comrades  farther  down  the  stream.  There  was  a  thirst 
in  Theodore's  heart  to  pursue  and  smite  them  still,  but 
he  remembered  Ildica,  and  turned  to  where  she  sat.  A 
moment  freed  her  from  her  bonds  :  Eudochia  and  Am- 
mian  were  set  at  liberty. 

"  Up  !  up  !  over  the  hill,  beloved,"  cried  Theodore  : 
"  quick  as  light,  Ildica !  No  words!  you  will  find  horses 
ready.  Cut  their  bonds  quick,"  he  continued,  mingling 
his  orders  to  the  freedmen  who  had  accompanied  him, 
and  to  the  captives  as  they  were  liberated.    "  Snatch 


100  ATTILA. 

up  what  arms  you  can  find !  There  are  the  swords,  and 
arrows,  and  javehns  they  have  left  behind.  Fly,  Ildica ! 
I  beseech  you,  fly  !  Ammian,  hurry  her  and  Eudochia 
up  the  hill ;  your  mother  is  there  with  horses ;  we  fol- 
low in  a  moment.  Quick !  quick  !  see,  the  barbarians 
are  pouring  back  upon  us !  form  a  phalanx  across  the 
road  !  Away,  away !  for  God's  sake  !  for  my  sake ! 
Away,  my  Ildica!" 

There  was  no  time  for  further  words;  the  Huns 
were  upon  them  ;  but,  happily  for  Theodore,  thirsty  for 
immediate  vengeance,  they  poured  upon  him  with  the 
svv^ord  and  spear,  instead  of  trusting  to  the  missiles 
which  they  might  have  used  with  more  fatal  effect. 
Supported  by  twenty  of  the  most  resolute  slaves  and 
freedmen,  some  hastily  equipped  wdth  the  arms  they  had 
snatched  up,  some  heaving  masses  of  stone,  the  young 
Roman,  active  and  skilful  in  the  use  of  all  the  weap- 
ons of  the  day,  barred  the  path  between  the  Huns  and 
their  liberated  captives,  and  met  them  with  a  courage 
and  a  fierceness  even  superior  to  their  own.  Every 
tree,  every  broken  mass  of  rock,  formed  a  point  of  re- 
sistance ;  and,  though  hurled  against  him  with  still  in- 
creasing rage  and  impetus,  the  Huns  recoiled,  like  jave- 
lins cast  against  a  rock,  leaving  some  of  their  number 
dead  or  dying  at  his  feet. 

Each  moment,  however,  their  numbers  increased,  as 
the  scattered  parties  from  the  different  spots  of  that 
wide  meadow  hurried  up  to  the  scene  of  conflict ;  and 
Theodore,  grim  with  the  blood  of  many  enemies,  but, 
alas  !  not  unstained  with  his  own,  slowly  retired  step 
by  step  towards  the  spot  where  the  road  entered  the 
wood.  There  he  had  resolved  to  make  his  last  stand 
and  die ;  but,  ere  he  reached  it,  a  broad  tremendous 
form,  which  had  just  come  up  from  the  farther  part  of 
the  meadow,  mingled  with  his  assailants,  and,  armed 
like  himself  with  a  heavy  sword,  seemed  to  single  him 
out  for  destruction.  His  countenance,  however,  was 
nobler  than  that  of  the  Huns  in  general,  as  his  height 
was  greater ;  and  when  Theodore  heard  him  exclaim, 
in  a  tongue  near  akin  to  the  Alan  language,  "  Leave 
him  to  me !  leave  him  to  me !"  he  thought  that,  if  he 
must  die,  it  might  be  sweeter  by  his  hand. 

Still,  however,  he  contended  with  him  with  but  little 
disadvantage  ;  for,  as  a  Roman,  he  had  greater  skill,  if 
the  barbarian  had  greater  strength.    Brow  to  brow,  and 


ATTILA.  101 

hand  to  hand,  blow  following  blow,  and  thrust  succeed- 
ing thrust,  they  stood  almost  alone,  while  the  youth's 
companions  were  driven  back ;  and  with  flashing  eyes 
and  slow  irregular  breath,  pursued  the  lightning  chances 
of  the  combat.  Neither  had  gained  a  step,  though  The- 
odore's blood  was  trickling  fast  away,  when  a  wild 
scream  from  the  hill  above  caught  his  ear,  unnerved 
his  heart,  and  brought  dim  despair  of  his  last  dearest 
desire's  result,  like  a  dark  cloud  before  his  eyes. 

He  turned  but  for  an  instant  to  listen  to  that  sound, 
but  that  instant  was  enough.  His  guard  was  beaten 
down ;  he  fell  upon  his  knee :  though  hope  had  aban- 
doned him,  courage  had  not,  and  he  strove  to  struggle 
up,  but  it  was  in  vain ;  his  mighty  adversary  poured 
blow  after  blow  upon  the  weak  defence  which  his  sword 
could  now  afford.  He  rose,  fell  again,  staggered  even 
upon  his  knee  ;  exposed  the  arm  which  held  the  weapon 
over  his  head  to  the  descending  stroke  of  his  enemy; 
dropped  the  sword  itself  from  his  disabled  hand,  and  saw 
the  shining  steel,  thirsting  for  his  heart's  last  drop, 
raised  high  in  air  above  his  defenceless  head.  The 
hour  he  had  expected  had  arrived,  and  he  was  prepared 
to  die ! 

As  with  quick  and  heavy  sweep  the  blow  fell  with  a 
vehemence  which  he  himself  who  struck  it  could  not 
restrain,  another  weapon  interposed,  caught  the  keen 
blade  upon  one  no  less  strong,  and  turned  the  stroke 
aside. 

"  Spare  him,  Ardaric !  spare  him  !"  cried  the  deep 
tones  of  a  voice  that  Theodore  had  heard  before. 
"  Spare  him,  for  love  of  me  !" 

The  young  Roman  started  on  his  feet,  and  gazed 
wildly  round  upon  the  scene  about  him.  When  last  he 
had  time  to  look  around,  nothing  had  been  seen  but  some 
two  hundred  Huns  contending  with  himself  and  his  small 
faithful  band.  Now,  sweeping  round  in  a  semicircle 
which  hemmed  him  in,  down  to  the  very  river's  brink,  was 
seen  an  innumerable  multitude  of  those  dark  ferocious 
horsemen,  while  thousands  on  thousands  more  appeared 
streaming  down  from  the  road,  and  spreading  them- 
selves out  over  the  whole  meadow. 

The  space  for  nearly  forty  cubits  immediately  about 
himself  and  his  adversary  was  clear,  except  where 
stood  beside  him  the  same  dark  chief  who  had  been  his 
guide  on  the  other  side  of  the  Danube,  and  where,  a 

12 


102  ATTILA. 

pace  or  two  behind,  a  barbarian  attendant  held  the, 
powerful  horse  from  which  lie  had  just  sprung.  But 
as  Tlieodore  gazed  along  the  dusky  line  of  savage  foes 
around  him,  a  sight  more  painful  to  his  heart  than  the 
impending  death  which  had  just  hung  over  him  struck 
his  eyes.  There,  where  a  multitude  of  banners,  rudely 
embroidered  with  a  black  eagle  crowned,  marked  a  par- 
ticular spot  in  their  irregular  line,  stood  Flavia  and  her 
fainily,  once  more  in  the  hands  of  the  barbarians ! 

But  the  hope  of  still  purchasing  their  safety  followed 
instantly  upon  the  agony  of  that  sight.  Theodore  at 
once  cast  himself  at  the  feet  of  the  Hunnish  chieftain. 
"Oh,  Onegisus!'"'  he  exclaimed,  "oh,  noble  Onegisus ! 
Thou  hast  promised  me,  unasked,  thy  favour  and  pro- 
tection. Now,  for  the  first  time  that  I  have  ever  re- 
quired a  boon  at  the  hands  of  man,  I  beseech  thee  to 
grant  me  one.  Let  this  brave  man,  from  whose  arm 
thou  hast  just  saved  me,  plunge  his  sword  into  my  heart ! 
But  let  yon  women  and  children,  bound  to  me  by  the 
ties  of  blood  and  love,  go  free !  Send  them,  oh  send 
them,  to  the  dwellings  of  my  mother's  race,  beneath  the 
snowy  Alps,  where  they  may  find  safety  and  protec- 
tion !  I  adjure  thee,  by  the  God  in  whom  I  believe  !  I 
adjure  thee,  by  the  gods  whom  thou  thyself  worship- 
pest  !  Spare  them,  oh  spare  them,  and  send  them  forth 
in  peace !" 

The  dark  chieftain  gazed  upon  him  for  a  moment 
with  an  aspect  stern  but  not  fierce. 

"  Ardaric,"  he  said  at  length,  "he  is  the  captive  of 
thy  hand.  Wilt  thou  give  him  unto  me,  and  the  first 
ten  captives  that  1  make  they  shall  be  thine  T" 

The  other  chieftain,  whose  brow  had  relaxed  from  the 
stern  frown  of  contest,  and  on  whose  face  was  a  mild 
and  not  unpleasing  smile,  thrust  his  sword  back  into  the 
scabbard,  saying,  "  I  give  them  to  thee  all,  oh  mighty 
king !  I  give  them  to  thee,  without  recompense  or 
bargain.  Let  them  be  the  first  spoil  taken  in  the 
land  of  the  Romans,  which  Ardaric  offers  to  Attila  the 
King." 

At  that  tremendous  name,  already  shadowed  over 
with  a  cloud  of  vague  but  fearful  rumours  of  wide  lands 
conquered,  kings  bent  to  homage,  and  nations,  as  savage 
as  that  over  which  he  ruled,  overthrown  by  that  mighty 
hand,  Theodore  drew  a  step  back,  and  gazed  with  doubt 
and  surprise  on  the  dark  features  and  sinewy  limbs  of 


ATTILA.  103 

him  who  had  just  saved  his  life  ;  and  if  his  feelings  had 
been  strange  and  mysterious  when  he  had  first  seen  that 
powerful  but  ill-proportioned  form,  what  were  they  now, 
when  he  heard  the  stranger  called  by  that  fearful  name. 

"  I  am  Attila !"  said  the  monarch,  answering  his 
wondering  and  inquiring  look.  "  What  sayst  thou  now, 
young  man  1  If  I  will  send  these  women  and  slaves 
free,  and  on  their  way,  wilt  thou  be  the  bondman  of  At- 
tila r' 

"  Oh,  not  a  bondman !"  said  Theodore,  letting  his 
head  droop  upon  his  bosom  :  "  I  can  die,  oh  monarch ! 
but  I  cannot  be  a  bondman !  Let  him  slay  me,  and  let 
them  go  free  ;  but  bind  not  the  limbs  of  a  free  Roman  !" 

Attila  gazed  on  him  a  while  w  ith  the  same  grave  ma- 
jestic air  which  he  had  never  lost  even  for  a  moment, 
and  then  added,  "  I  understand  thee  :  1  will  not  bind  thy 
hands  ;  I  will  not  demand  thy  service  against  thy  native 
land — thou  shalt  draw  no  sword  for  Attila  against  Rome 
— thou  shalt  fill  no  servile  employ — honoured  and  ca- 
ressed, thou  shalt  be  the  friend  of  Attila ;  and,  if  thou 
showest  the  same  wisdom  in  other  matters  as  in  this, 
thou  shalt  be  his  counsellor  also.  Not  his  first  friend — 
not  his  first  counsellor,"  he  added, "  for  here  stands  Ar- 
daric,  whose  place  none  can  supply  ;  and  yonder  is  One- 
gisus,  found  faithful  in  all  things — but  thou  shalt  be  among 
the  first.  Hearken,  thou  shalt  promise  me  for  seven 
years  to  be  to  me  a  faithful  friend  and  counsellor — ex- 
cept in  war  or  counsel  against  thy  native  land — and  I 
will  send  these  thy  people  upon  their  way,  with  the 
king's  pledge  for  their  safety  till  they  reach  the  land  of 
thy  kindred." 

"  Surely  the  king  has  some  secret  motive  !"  exclaimed 
Ardaric,  king  of  the  tributary,  or  rather  subject,  nation 
of  the  Gepidae ;  "  surely  the  king  has  some  secret  mo- 
tive for  showing. this  favour  to  a  captive — though  the 
boy  is  brave  !" 

"  I  have,  Ardaric  !"  replied  Attila,  "  I  have  !  There 
is  a  strange  bond  between  me  and  him — but  that  mat- 
ters not.     Wilt  thou  accept  the  offer,  youth  ?" 

"  I  will !"  replied  Theodore ;  "  but  cannot  they  go 
with  me  V  and  he  pointed  with  his  hand  to  Flavia  and 
her  companions. 

"Thou  knowest  not  what  thou  askest!"  cried  the 
king,  with  a  cloud  darkening  on  his  brow.  "  It  were 
evil  with  them,  and  not  good,  to  go.    I  will  send  them 


104  ATTILA. 

in  safety  and  in  honour  to  the  land  of  the  Alani,  if  thou 
wilt  be  as  obedient  to  my  commands  as  a  son  to  a 
father's  during  seven  years,  except  in  the  things  which 
are  against  thy  country ;  dost  thou  accept  the  terms  ?" 

"  I  do,"  rephed  Theodore,  "I  do  ;  and  deep  and  heart- 
felt gratitude  will  I  ever  show  to  thee,  oh  monarch,  for 
thus  befriending  me  in  my  hour  of  need  !" 

"  For  seven  years !"  said  the  monarch,  gazing  up 
thoughtfully  towards  the  sky,  while  the  light  of  wild 
but  mighty  aspirations  illuminated  his  harsh  but  striking 
features — "  for  seven  years !  Ere  seven  years  have  fled, 
I  shall  have  conquered  the  whole  earth  1" 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE    PARTING. 

A  SILENT  pause  of  several  minutes  ensued,  while  the 
terrible  monarch  of  the  Huns  thus  suffered  to  burst  forth 
so  clear  an  indication  of  his  hopes  and  purposes ;  and  i 
as  he  stood  in  the  midst,  still  gazing  up  to  the  sky,  with  ; 
each  firm  and  powerful  limb  in  statue-like  repose,  his  i 
feet  planted  on  the  earth  as  if  rooted  to  it,  his  broad  i 
chest  thrown  open,  and  his  wide  square  forehead  lifted  s 
to  the  morning  sun,  there  was  an  air  of  might  and  f 
majesty   in    his   whole   appearance   which   impressed  | 
those  who  beheld  him  with  a  belief  in  his  power  to  | 
accomplish   fully   that  which   he   so   boldly   planned,  f 
Though  far  less  in  height  than  the  chief  of  Gepidae,  yet  | 
Ardaric  gazed  upon  him  with  reverence  and  awe ;  and  i 
Theodore,  as  he  beheld  him,  and  traced  the  light  of  po-  5 
tent  intellect  flashing  from  those  dark  eyes,  while  his  i 
lip  pronounced  his  vast  designs,  could  not  but  feel  that 
there  stood  the  most  dangerous  enemy  that  Rome  had 
ever  known. 

At  length  Attila  recalled  his  thoughts  from  those 
dreams  of  conquest,  and,  waving  his  hand  towards  the  ! 
spot  where  the  standards  of  his  nation  were  gathered 
together,  he  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  which,  though  not. 
apparently  loud,  came  deep  and  distinct  to  every  ear 
around,  "  Edicon !  Edicon,  come  hither  1" 


ATTILA.  105 

A  tall,  dark  man,  with  the  shrewd  face  of  a  Greek,  but 
the  air  and  expression  of  a  barbarian,  sprang  from  his 
horse  and  advanced  a  pace  or  two  into  the  open  space 
around  the  king ;  but,  as  he  came  forward,  Attila  bade 
him  bring  the  principal  captives  with  him  ;  and,  pale, 
faint,  and  sick  at  heart,  Flavia  and  her  family,  uncertain 
either  of  their  own  fate  or  of  his,  so  closely,  so  dearly 
linked  with  them,  approached  the  spot  where  the  dark 
monarch  stood  with  his  naked  sword  still  clasped  in  his 
sinewy  hand.  As  they  came  near,  the  joy  of  having 
saved  them  burst  all  restraint ;  and  Theodore,  though 
the  blood  was  still  dropping  from  his  garments,  clasped 
them  one  by  one  in  a  brief  but  joyful  embrace. 

"  You  are  safe,  my  mother !"  he  cried,  "  you  are  safe, 
my  Ildica !  Ammian,  Eudochia,  you  are  safe  !  you  are 
safe,  and  at  liberty  !  The  king  will  send  you  securely 
to  the  land  of  the  Alani." 

"  And  you,  my  son,  are  a  slave  !"  said  Flavia.  "  You 
are  a  slave,  and  we  shall  never  see  you  more  !" 

"  Not  so !"  said  Attila,  gazing  upon  the  group,  and 
somewhat  moved  by  their  meeting.  "  He  is  no  slave, 
but  has  bound  himself  to  dwell  with  Attila  not  less  than 
seven  years.  Neither  do  1  ask  him  to  war  against  his 
country,  it  would  be  doing  wrong  unto  his  nature ;  but 
I  ask  him  to  be  a  faithful  and  true  friend  to  him  who 
has  saved  his  life,  in  every  other  thing.  Edicon,  thou 
art  a  scribe :  write  down  this  compact  between  Attila 
the  King  and  Theodore  the  son  of  Paulinus,  in  order 
that  no  one  may  ever  doubt  that  he  did  not  betray  his 
native  land,  or  that  Attila  could  not  be  generous  to  his 
enemy." 

He  spoke  in  the  Latin  tongue ;  and  though  he  used 
not  that  language  with  ease,  yet  his  meaning  was  dis- 
tinct, and  Flavia  replied — "  Act  ever  thus,  oh  monarch ! 
and  thou  shalt  conquer  more  by  thy  generosity  than  by 
the  sword !"  A  hope  might,  perhaps,  have  crossed  her 
mind,  even  while  she  spoke,  that  in  so  free  and  kindly 
a  mood  the  monarch  of  the  Huns  might  be  induced  to 
suffer  her  and  her  children  to  take  up  their  abode  in 
the  same  land  with  Theodore  ;  but  she  thought  of  Ildica, 
of  her  young  blossoming  beauty,  of  her  tender  nurture, 
and  her  graceful  mind,  and  she  repressed  the  wish  ere 
it  was  spoken ;  all  she  added  was,  "  Oh,  keep  him  not 
from  us  for  ever  !" 

"  I  have  pledged  and  plighted  my  word,"  replied  the 


106  ATTILA. 

king,  "  that  in  seven  years  he  shall  be  free  to  leave  me 
if  he  will.  More  :  if  he  show  himself  as  faithful  to  me 
as  he  has  been  to  his  country,  he  shall,  from  time  to 
time,  have  leave  and  opportunity  to  visit  those  he  loves. 
But  I  have  mightier  things  to  think  of  now,"  he  contin- 
ued :  "  wait  ye  here  till  I  provide  for  your  safety.  Ar- 
daric,  come  thou  with  me ;  I  go  to  tread  upon  the  necks 
of  the  Romans."  Thus  saying,  he  sprang  upon  his 
horse,  and  issued  a  few  brief  commands  in  the  Hunnic 
tongue.  The  dark  masses  of  the  barbarian  horse  began 
to  move  on  by  the  river-side  as  if  towards  Idimum ; 
and  while  they  swept  along,  like  the  shadow  of  a  cloud 
over  a  field  of  green  corn,  the  monarch  continued  con- 
versing with  his  attendant  Edicon,  without  further  no- 
tice of  the  captives.  At  length,  when  Theodore  saw 
him  about  to  depart,  he  ventured  to  ask,  "  Go  you  to 
Margus,  oh  king "?" 

Attila  looked  upon  him  with  a  smile  so  slight  that  it 
scarcely  curled  his  lip,  and  replied,  "  Margus  was  mine 
ere  I  came  hither !  INIy  people  are  skilful  in  dressing 
wounds,"  he  added ;  "  let  them  tend  thine,  for  thou  art 
bleeding  still." 

As  he  spoke,  he  raised  his  hand  slightly  on  the  bridle 
of  his  horse ;  the  beast  sprang  forward  across  the 
meadow,  and,  followed  by  a  troop  of  Huns  who  had  re- 
mained upon  the  left,  Attila  galloped  on  in  the  same  di- 
rection which  his  host  had  taken  before  him. 

Only  two  bodies  of  barbarians  continued  upon  the 
field;  one,  consisting  of  perhaps  a  hundred  men,  re- 
mained with  Edicon,  near  the  spot  where  Theodore  and 
his  companions  stood ;  the  other,  fewer  in  number,  were 
gathered  farther  down  in  the  meadow,  near  which  the 
struggle  between  Theodore  and  the  Huns  for  the  deliv-^ 
erance  of  the  captives  had  first  commenced.  A  glance 
showed  the  young  Roman  that  they  were  in  the  act  of 
removing  or  burying  the  dead ;  but  objects  of  deeper 
interest  called  his  attention  elsewhere,  for  Flavia,  Eu- 
dochia,  Ammian,  Ildica,  gathered  round  him,  gazing  in 
his  face,  pale  as  it  was  with  loss  of  blood,  and  looking 
upon  him  with  the  thankful  eyes  of  beings  whom  he 
had  delivered  from  bondage  worse  than  death.  How  he 
had  delivered  them,  by  what  means,  or  by  what  motives 
in  the  breast  of  the  Hun  that  deliverance  had  been  ac- 
complished, was  strange  and  incomprehensible  to  them 
all,  even  to  Theodore  himself;  but  that  it  was  by  his 


ATTILA.  107 

agency,  on  account  of  his  valour,  constancy,  and  faith- 
fulness, none  of  them  for  a  moment  doubted  ;  and  as 
Ildica  raised  her  large  dark  eyes  to  his  face,  they  were 
full  at  once  of  love,  of  admiration,  and  of  gratitude. 

Oh,  who  can  tell  the  mingled  feelings  of  that  hour, 
when  sitting  round  him  they  loved — while  one  of  the  rude 
Huns,  with  the  peculiar  appliances  of  his  nation,  stanch- 
ed the  trickling  blood  and  dressed  his  many  wounds — 
those  who  had  lately  given  way  to  despair,  now  spoke 
to  each  other  the  few  glad  words  of  reviving  hope  ! 
Oh,  who  can  tell  the  deep  and  fervid  yearnings  of  the 
heart  towards  God  in  thankfulness  for  the  mighty  mercy 
just  vouchsafed !  Oh,  who  can  tell  the  thrilling,  the 
ecstatic  sense  of  security,  of  peace,  and  of  happy  ex- 
pectation* which  succeeded,  after  having  been  plunged 
in  such  a  depth  of  grief,  of  care,  and  agony  ! 

What  though  their  thoughts  might  wander  on  into  the 
vague  future,  and  sad  experience  might  cause  a  fear  to 
cast  its  shadow  over  the  prospect !  What  though  Flavia's 
heart  might  feel  a  chilliness  at  the  idea  of  strange  lands, 
strange  habits,  and  strange  nations  !  What  though  Il- 
dica and  Theodore  might  look  upon  a  probable  separa- 
tion of  seven  long  years  with  grief  and  regret;  yet  oh, 
how  such  pitiful  alloy  sunk  into  nothing  when  mingled 
with  the  golden  happiness  of  knowing  that  safety,  lib- 
erty, and  peace  had  been  obtained  after  so  fearful  a 
struggle  !  Could  Theodore  gaze  upon  the  lovely  and 
beloved  form  of  the  sweet  Dalmatian  girl,  and  know  how 
dreadful  a  fate  might  have  befallen  her,  without  feeling 
that  life  itself  would  have  been  a  poor  sacrifice  to  save 
her  from  such  a  doom  1  Could  Ildica  behold  her  lover, 
and  recall  the  moments  when  last  she  saw  him  sur- 
rounded by  fierce  foes,  and  determined  to  die,  that  he 
might  give  her  a  chance  of  liberty,  without  feeling  that 
a  seven  years'  absence  was  but  a  cheap  price  for  the 
life  and  safety  of  so  noble,  so  devoted  a  being  1 

To  part — to  part,  perhaps,  for  seven  long,  solitary 
years — would,  in  happier  days,  have  seemed  a  fate  too 
bitter  for  endurance  ;  but  now,  the  dark  and  fearful  ima- 
ges from  which  that  lot  stood  forth  made  it  look  bright 
and  smiling.  The  hour  of  horror  and  danger  had 
passed  by  ;  despair  had  given  way  ;  and  though  fear  still 
lived,  yet  hope,  hope  was  the  victor  for  the  time. 

Their  words  were  few  but  sweet,  and  they  were  un- 
interrupted ;  for  the  Huns,  after  the  youth's  wounds 


108  -  ATTILA. 

were  dressed,  pointed  out  to  them  some  shady  trees  as 
a  place  to  repose,  and  left  them  unrestrained,  and  al- 
most unwatched.  The  barbarians  knew  well  that  the 
whole  land  around  was  in  their  king's  possession,  and 
feared  not  that  any  one  could  escape.  The  words  of 
the  captives,  I  have  said,  were  few,  but  still  those  words 
were  not  unimportant,  for  they  went  to  regulate  the  fu- 
ture fate  of  all.  Each  promised,  when  occasion  served, 
to  give  tidings  of  their  health  and  prospects,  hopes  and 
wishes,  to  a  mutual  relation  in  Rome,  the  noble  Julius 
Lentulus,  and  each  unloaded  the  mind  to  the  other  of 
every  feeling  which,  in  a  moment  such  as  that,  the 
heart  could  experience,  of  every  thought  which  the 
memory  could  recall. 

As  they  thus  sat  and  conversed,  the  slaves  and  at- 
tendants who  had  been  captured  with  them  crept  grad- 
ually nearer  and  nearer,  not  yet  comprehending  fully 
the  situation  in  which  they  were  placed ;  feeling  them- 
selves to  be  prisoners,  and  yet  marvelling  that  their 
limbs  remained  untied,  after  such  a  bold  effort  to  escape, 
when  they  had  been  bound  with  leathern  thongs  before. 
Nearly  one  half,  however,  of  the  freedmen  were  ab- 
sent ;  and  painful  sensations  passed  through  the  hearts 
of  Theodore  and  Flavia  when  they  looked  around,  and 
missed  some  old  familiar  face  ;  but  neither  spoke  their 
feelings  on  this  point  to  the  other.  As  the  sun  passed 
the  meridian,  however,  two  or  three  Huns  from  time  to 
time  came  riding  down  the  road,  driving  before  them, 
with  their  short  spears,  several  of  the  absent  attendants ; 
and  while  the  day  went  on,  a  considerable  part  of  the 
baggage,  whereof  Flavia's  company  had  been  pillaged 
on  their  first  capture,  was  brought  back  without  a  word 
of  explanation,  and  piled  up  round  the  trees  underneath 
which  she  sat.  Strange  is  it  and  unaccountable  how 
the  heart  of  man,  which  despises  many  a  mighty  warn- 
ing, draws  auguries  for  its  hopes  and  fears  from  the 
ipettiest  occurrences  that  befall  us  in  our  course  through 
life.  When  Flavia,  and  Ildica,  and  Theodore  saw  the 
litters,  and  chairs,  and  chariots,  and  bales  of  goods  re- 
stored, and  laid  down  in  silence,  a  well-pleased  smile 
beamed  upon  the  face  of  each ;  not  that  either  thought 
at  that  moment  of  comfort  or  convenience,  or  of  all  the 
little  luxuries  which  the  glass  of  civilization  magnifies 
into  necessaries ;  but  that  each  one  thence  drew  a  re- 
newed assurance  that  the  barbarian  monarch,  into  whose 


ATTILA.  i09 

hands  they  had  fallen,  however  fierce  and  bloodthirsty- 
he  might  have  shown  himself  to  others,  at  all  events 
meant  well  and  kindly  towards  them. 

Towards  the  third  hour  after  noon,  food  rudely  cooked, 
and  a  beverage  peculiar  to  the  people  of  Dacia,  were  set 
before  them ;  and  Edicon,  sitting  down  to  meat  with 
them,  pressed  them  to  their  meal,  using  the  Latin  tongue 
as  purely  as  if  it  had  been  his  own.  He  spoke  of  the 
empire  of  the  Huns,  of  their  might,  their  conquests,  and 
their  innumerable  hordes ;  he  spoke  even  of  Bleda,  the 
brother  of  the  king,  and  monarch  of  one  part  of  the  na- 
tion :  but  the  name  of  Attila  he  pronounced  not ;  and, 
when  it  was  mentioned  by  Theodore,  he  turned  quickly 
to  some  other  theme. 

The  sun  had  lost  much  of  its  heat  by  the  time  the 
meal  was  concluded ;  and,  shortly  after,  a  Hunnish  horse- 
man came  down  the  road  with  fiery  speed,  and  ad- 
dressed a  few  quick  words  to  Edicon. 

That  chief  instantly  turned  and  addressed  Flavia. 
"Tricornium  and  Singidunum  have  fallen,"  he  said, 
"  and  the  way  is  clear  before  you.  It  is  the  will  of  the 
king  that  you  commence  your  journey." 

Flavia  gazed  upon  Theodore,  and  Theodore  upon 
those  he  loved ;  and  the  bright  drops  clustered  in  the 
dark  eyes  of  Ildica  like  dew  in  the  half-closed  leaves 
of  the  morning.  Eudochia,  too,  hung  upon  her  brother's 
neck,  and  Ammian  grasped  his  hand ;  but  still  the  son 
of  Flavia,  with  wilder  and  less  regulated  feelings  than 
the  rest,  could  not  yet  understand  or  appreciate  the 
grief  of  Theodore  at  that  moment  of  parting.  "  Would 
I  were  you,  Theodore !"  he  exclaimed.  "  Gladly  would 
I  see  the  country  and  manners  of  these  wild  Huns; 
and  oh,  if  I  had  a  father's  murder  to  avenge  as  you  have, 
I  would  march  on  with  that  brave  and  mighty  Attila, 
and  smite  the  t5n"ant,  Theodosius,  on  his  throne." 

"  Could  it  be  without  the  ruin  of  my  country,"  replied 
Theodore  ;  "  but,  alas,  Ammian,  that  cannot  be.  Weep 
not,  dear  Ildica!  Sorrow  not,  my  mother,  that  for  a 
time  you  must  leave  me  here.  Let  us  remember  our 
condition  a  few  hours  ago,  and  be  thankful  to  God  that 
it  is  as  it  is  even  now.  Far  safer,  too,  are  you  under 
the  guidance  and  protection  of  these  powerful  barbari- 
ans, than  if,  unaided  and  unguarded,  we  had  attempted 
to  penetrate  into  Noricum  :  far  safer  am  I  left  here, 
with  those  who  have  spared  me  even  when  my  sword 

Vol.  L— K 


110  ATTILA. 

was  drawn  against  them,  than  if  I  were  attempting  to 
guide  you  through  strange  lands  that  I  know  not,  and 
barbarian  people  who  hate  us  for  our  very  civilization. 
I  trust  implicitly  to  the  word  of  Attila.  He  has  prom- 
ised us  his  favour  and  protection,  and  I  fear  not." 

"  Thou  judgest  rightly,  Roman,"  joined  in  Edicon, 
who  still  stood  by.  "  The  word  of  Attila,  whether  for 
good  or  bad,  has  never  yet  been  broken.  His  sentence 
is  irreversible  ;  his  mind  unchangeable.  Fear  nothing 
for  the  safety  of  your  friends.  Two  hundred  of  our 
bravest  warriors  guard  them  to  Singidunum,  whence  a 
tribe  of  the  HeruU,  with  a  messenger  from  the  king, 
convey  them  onward  to  their  destination.  They  are 
safe  wherever  they  go,  for  Attila  has  promised  them 
protection ;  and  is  not  Attila  lord  of  the  earth  V 

Still  Ildica  clung  to  him  ;  still  Flavia  gazed  upon  him 
with  wistful  affection  ;  and  the  heart  of  Theodore,  while 
they  prepared  once  more  for  their  journey,  swelled  with 
feelings  too  painful  for  utterance.  Weakened  with  loss 
of  blood,  wearied  with  terrible  exertion,  and  forced  to 
part  for  long,  dim,  uncertain  years  from  those  whom 
alone  he  loved  on  earth,  his  manly  fortitude  wavered ; 
but  the  presence  of  the  Huns  and  the  pride  of  a  Roman 
sustained  him.  He  could  not  bear  that  barbarians 
should  see  him  weep ;  and  though  he  held  them  one  by 
one  to  his  bosom  in  the  warm  embrace  of  passionate 
affection — though  he  spoke  to  the  very  slaves  and  freed- 
men  with  the  tenderness  of  old  and  fond  regard — though 
he  looked  upon  each  familiar  face  and  long-remembered 
feature  with  the  clinging  earnestness  of  love — yet  he 
mastered  the  emotions  of  his  bosom,  and  saw  them  pre- 
pared to  go  without  a  tear  moistening  his  eye.  One 
last  kiss,  one  long,  dear  embrace,  and  Theodore  turned 
away.  Then  came  the  sound  of  many  feet,  the  neigh- 
ing of  horses,  the  cries  of  barbarian  voices  in  the  tone 
of  command,  the  rustling  and  the  rush  of  a  moving 
crowd.  Gradually  the  noise  became  less,  the  tongues 
sounded  more  faintly,  the  tramp  of  feet  subsided  into  a 
lower  and  a  lower  murmur,  and  Theodore,  looking 
round,  found  himself  left  alone,  amid  a  small  party  of 
the  Huns,  with  a  feeling  of  deep  desolation  at  his  heart, 
such  as  he  had  never  known  before. 


ATTILA.  Ill 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE    DESOLATION. 

A  LONG  deep  sigh  was  all  that  Theodore  would  now 
give  to  the  pain  of  parting.  It  was  over,  finished,  and 
endured!  and  he  stood  there,  calm  but  grave,  prepared 
for  the  long  cold  lapse  of  the  next  seven  years.  Oh, 
sad  and  sorrowful  is  it,  more  melancholy,  if  not  more 
painful,  than  any  other  state  of  human  being — fertile  as 
existence  is  in  woes  and  miseries — when  over  the  sum- 
mer and  the  sunshiny  days  of  early  youth  are  brought 
the  premature  storms  of  manhood,  the  hurricane  of 
angry  passions,  or  the  deep  and  settled  clouds  of  dis- 
appointment and  despair !  Oh,  sad  and  sorrowful  is  it, 
when  the  half-open  flower  of  the  heart  is  broken  off  by 
the  rude  footstep  of  adverse  fate  ere  it  has  time  to  ex- 
pand into  beauty !  Oh,  sad  and  sorrowful  is  it,  when 
by  the  rough  hand  of  circumstance  the  fresh  bloom  is 
brushed  from  the  fruit  ere  it  be  ripe  ! 

Yet  such  was  the  fate  of  Theodore.  Endowed  with 
ardent  feelings,  strong  passions,  powerful  energies  both 
of  mind  and  body,  he  had  been  called,  while  those  feel- 
ings were  in  their  first  freshness,  while  those  passions 
were  in  their  early  fervour,  ere  those  energies  had  been 
strengthened  by  time  or  instructed  by  experience,  to 
mingle  with  scenes,  and  take  part  in  events,  which  few 
even  of  the  mightiest  and  most  mature  minds  of  accom- 
plished manhood  could  pass  through,  without  bearing 
away  the  indelible  stains  left  by  feelings  blighted,  or 
the  rude  scars  inflicted  by  evil  passions.  He  had  loved, 
and  he  had  been  beloved.  He  had  tasted  once  of  the 
nectar  cup  of  the  gods,  which,  when  pressed  by  a  pure 
lip,  instils  into  the  heart  a  spirit  of  immortality — and 
his  lip  had  pressed  it  purely.  Then  had  been  called 
forth  the  exertion  of  that  great  attribute  of  manhood, 
the  power  of  protecting,  aiding,  directing  weaker  beings 
in  moments  of  terror  and  danger.  Then  came  the 
mingling  of  that  most  bitter  draught,  when  grief  and  in- 
dignation are  all  that  are  off'ered  to  allay  the  thirst  of 
s  lip  burning  for  revenge.    Then  came  the  ignominy 


112  ATTILA. 

of  flight  from  an  enemy  alike  hated  and  despised ;  then 
the  temptation  conquered,  to  pamper  vengeance  by 
treason  ;  and  then  the  mighty  struggle  where  life  was 
played  for  as  a  dicer's  stake,  and  every  energy  of  heart 
and  brain  was  called  into  fierce  activity,  when  human 
blood  was  spilt,  and  mortal  being  extinguished  by  his 
hand,  to  save  from  death,  or  Avorse  than  death,  those 
he  most  loved  on  earth.  And  there  he  now  stood,  that 
wa^T'ward,  fated  being,  around  whom  within  the  last 
month  so  many  lightnings  had  played,  left  alone  amid 
men  with  v/hom  he  had  no  community  of  feehng. 

Those  hours  of  agony  and  excitement  had  indeed 
made  him  a  man  before  his  time,  and  well,  well  might 
they  take  the  bloom  off  his  young  heart ;  yet  though 
the  siren  voice  of  expectation  might  have  lost  part  of 
its  sweetness ;  though  the  chord  which  once  vibrated 
to  every  joy  might  now  possess  no  longer  its  elastic 
tone  ;  though  there  was  the  gray  shade  of  doubt  ming- 
ling with  every  bright  colour  which  went  to  paint  the 
future,  and  the  enchanter  could  charm  no  more  ;  still 
there  was  within  his  bosom,  in  his  love  for  Ildica,  a 
sweet  source  of  unpolluted  happiness,  a  well  of  youthful 
feelings  undefiled,  a  fountain  of  bright  clear  waters, 
where  wearied  hope  might  come  and  drink  and  be  re- 
freshed. As  he  stood  there  in  his  loneliness,  the  value 
of  that  spring  of  secret  enjoyment  was  displayed  in  all 
its  brightness.  He  knew,  he  felt  that  there  was  his 
treasure ;  and,  with  that  support  and  conscious  inno- 
cence alone,  he  prepared  to  face  the  future,  be  it  what 
it  might. 

The  rapid  process  of  thought  had  ran  over  in  a  few 
minutes  all  the  varied  particulars  of  his  situation,  the 
much  of  gloomy  and  dark,  and  the  small  but  intense 
spot  of  guiding  light ;  and,  ere  the  few  Huns  who  re- 
mained with  him  showed  any  disposition  to  move,  he 
himself  turned  towards  their  leader,  and  demanded  what 
was  to  ensue. 

"  Are  you  able  to  sit  a  horse  ]"  demanded  Edicon, 
gazing  on  his  features,  still  pale  with  loss  of  blood. 

"  I  am,"  replied  Theodore,  "  if  the  journey  be  not 
long." 

"  Then  we  must  follow  the  king,"  replied  Edicon ; 
"but  I  have  his  commands  to  make  the  stations  suit 
your  capability.  There  is  your  sword,"  he  continued, 
giving  him  the  weapon  which  had  dropped  from  his 


ATTILA.  113 

hand  when  the  blow  of  Ardaric  had  for  the  time  disa- 
bled his  right  arm.  "  You  are  to  be  treated  in  no  way 
as  a  bondman." 

"  Keep  it  for  me,"  replied  Theodore,  putting  it  aside 
with  the  back  of  his  hand ;  "  I  will  never  go  armed 
into  my  native  land  with  the  enemies  of  my  country." 

Edicon  laughed  aloud.  "  Is  there  anything  else,"  he 
demanded,  "  that  your  fancy  would  have  1  1  am  ordered 
to  humour  thee  to  the  utmost." 

"  There  was  one  faithful  freedman,"  said  Theodore, 
"  whom  I  saw  not  with  the  rest  who  departed  just  now. 
I  would  gladly  hear  of  his  fate :  I  left  him  with  the 
horses  on  the  hill." 

"  What!  a  giant  V  demanded  Edicon.  "  I  saw  such 
a  one  contending  like  a  madman  with  our  whole  army. 
If  it  be  of  him  you  speak,  most  probably  he  is  dead. 
I  saw  him  fall  beneath  a  blow  which  would  have  slain 
a  bull.  At  all  events,  he  is  in  the  hands  of  Attila  the 
King;  for  I  heard  him  bid  his  people  see  to  the  brave 
African.     Is  there  aught  else  ?" 

"  I  would  fain,"  said  Theodore,  with  a  sigh,  "  I  would 
fain  recover  the  horse  I  rode.  It  was  my  father's  char- 
ger :  but  I  fear  that  it  is  vain,  for  I  left  it  upon  the  hill." 

"  What,  the  black  horse  with  the  white  star  on  his 
forehead  ?"  demanded  Edicon. 

"  The  same,"  answered  Theodore,  with  some  surprise. 
"  Have  you  seen  him  V 

"  I  saw  him  with  you  on  the  other  side  of  the  Danube, 
some  four  days  ago,"  replied  Edicon,  "  when  Attila  came 
down  from  the  interior  to  meet  you." 

"  To  meet  me !"  exclaimed  Theodore,  with  a  faint 
srTiile  ;  "  he  could  not  come  to  meet  me ;  for  I  crossed 
the  Danube  by  accident,  not  from  any  long-conceived 
purpose." 

"  So  it  might  be,"  answered  the  chief,  "  and  yet  the 
king  knew  that  you  were  coming,  and  went  down  to 
meet  you.  Do  you  not  believe  that  there  are  men  who 
see  the  coming  events  as  clearly  as  we  see  the  past  1 
But  it  matters  not,"  he  added  ;  "  we  left  the  tribe  of 
Vultingours  upon  the  hill.  Perchance  the  horse  may 
have  fallen  into  their  hands  ;  if  so,  thou  shalt  have  him." 

He  then  spoke  a  few  words  in  their  own  tongue  to 
some  of  the  Huns  near,  two  of  whom  instantly  sprang 
upon  their  horses  and  galloped  up  the  hill.  While  they 
were  gone,  Theodore  and  Edicon  lay  down  in  the  shade 

K8 


114  ATTILA. 

upon  the  grass ;  and  the  yoimg  Roman  endeavoured  to 
induce  his  companion  to  pursue  to  some  clearer  point 
of  explanation  the  vague  hints  which  had  been  given 
regarding  his  first  meeting  with  Attila ;  but  the  wily 
barbarian  was  not  to  be  led  onward  beyond  the  precise 
line  by  which  he  chose  to  bound  his  communication ; 
and  as  soon  as  Theodore  attempted  to  gain  further  in- 
formation, he  started  up,  and  busied  himself  in  giving 
orders  to  the  wild  warriors  around  him. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  two  Huns  returned,  leading 
down  at  a  quick  pace  the  horse  of  the  young  Roman, 
which,  snorting  and  rearing,  resisted  the  unfamiliar 
hands  by  which  he  was  guided.  In  a  moment,  however, 
the  voice  of  his  master  rendered  him  tame  and  docile 
as  a  lamb ;  and  Theodore  could  perceive,  by  the  smiles 
and  gestures  of  the  barbarians,  whose  affection  for, 
and  command  over,  their  own  horses  were  even  then 
proverbial,  that  he  had  risen  highly  in  their  esteem  by 
the  love  and  obedience  which  the  noble  beast  displayed 
towards  him. 

When  at  length  all  was  prepared,  he  mounted,  though 
with  much  pain  and  difficulty  from  his  wounds  ;  but 
when  once  on  his  horse's  back  he  experienced  no  further 
inconvenience,  except  from  weakness ;  and,  riding  side 
by  side  with  Edicon,  he  proceeded  slowly  on  the  same 
track  which  Attila  and  his  troops  had  previously  taken. 

A  little  farther  to  the  east,  the  woods  again  swept 
down  to  the  very  banks,  seeming  to  present  an  imper- 
vious barrier  against  their  advance  in  that  direction ; 
but  still  the  Scythian  horsemen  rode  on  direct  towards 
the  forest,  and,  separating  on  the  very  edge,  each  took 
his  path  by  himself,  winding  along  with  extraordinary 
skill  and  dexterity,  and  keeping  up  their  communication 
with  each  other  by  shrill,  sharp  cries.  They  had  appa- 
rently left  the  direction  taken  by  Attila  and  his  myriads  ; 
for  the  grass  of  the  forest  bore  no  trace  of  having  been 
trodden  down  by  the  feet  of  those  innumerable  horse- 
men; and  the  green  boughs  on  either  side,  clad  in 
the  refreshing  garmenture  of  the  early  year,  neither 
scorched  by  the  summer's  sun  nor  withered  by  the 
autumn's  wind,  were  unbroken  and  undisturbed.  With 
slow  and  heavy  wing  rose  up  the  feathered  tenants  of 
the  wood,  on  the  passage  of  strangers  through  those 
spots  of  which  they  had  held  solitary  possession  for  so 
many  years :  the  beasts  started  away  from  their  path, 


ATTILA.  115 

almost  under  the  horses'  feet ;  and  everything  indica- 
ted that  calm  tranquillity  had  reigned  there  for  many  a 
year,  while  the  civilized  world  beyond  had  been  torn 
by  faction,  turbulence,  and  war. 

For  nearly  three  miles  the  branch  of  the  great  Dacian 
forest,  which  they  w^ere  now  traversing,  continued  un- 
broken, but  at  the  end  of  that  distance  it  a^jain  suddenly 
ceased,  and,  issuing  out  upon  a  wide  savanna,  the  little 
band  of  Huns  reunited,  and  rode  rapidly  on.  Another 
wood  succeeded,  but  of  less  extent,  and  bearing  evi- 
dent traces,  in  many  parts,  of  the  destroying  axe.  It, 
too,  was  soon  crossed ;  and  when  Theodore  had  again 
reached  its  extreme  limit,  another  scene,  more  gloomy, 
more  painful,  more  terrible,  broke  upon  his  eye. 

It  was  a  cultivated  land  laid  desolate!  The  corn, 
just  losing  its  fresh  green,  and  touched  with  the  golden 
hand  of  summer,  was  beaten  down,  and  trodden  into 
the  very  ground  from  w^hich  it  grew  ;  the  fences  and 
partitions  were  swept  away,  and  the  scattered  remnants 
thereof,  mingled  with  the  produce  which  they  were  in- 
tended to  protect,  spread  wide  over  the  trampled  and 
ruined  country.  The  huts  and  cottages  of  a  lowly  but 
industrious  population  were  seen  around ;  but  the  roof 
had  fallen  in,  and  the  blackened  and  smouldering  rafters 
told  the  tale  of  destruction  but  too  well.  In  the  midst 
of  the  field  lay  a  husbandman  with  a  javelin  wound  in 
his  throat,  and  at  the  door  of  one  of  the  cottages, 
stretched  across  that  threshold  which  her  feet  had  so 
often  passed  with  joy  and  gladness,  was  the  body  of  a 
young  mother,  with  her  golden  hair  streaming  on  the 
ground,  her  white  arms  extended  motionless  above  her 
head,  now  tranquil  in  death,  but  teUing  still  the  tale  of 
agonized  emotion  past,  of  supplication  urged  in  vain, 
and  unanswered  appeals  unto  mysterious  Heaven ;  and 
there,  beside  her,  seeking  with  plaintive  cries  its  wonted 
food,  crept  on  towards  her  bosom  her  infant  child,  its 
little  hands  dabbling  in  the  stream  of  gore  that  welled 
from  the  fond  loved  home  of  infancy,  the  dear  maternal 
breast   now  for  ever  cold  and  feelingless. 

"  Oh  God,  the  child  !"  cried  Theodore,  as  they  rode  by. 

Edicon  gazed  on  it  with  a  stern  dark  brow.  "  There 
will  be  many  such,"  he  said,  and  it  was  all  his  reply. 

The  young  Roman's  heart  swelled  Avithin  him  with 
the  choking  agony  of  fruitless  indignation.  He  could 
do  naught  to  succour,  to  save,  or  to  defend ;  and  bend- 


116  ATTILA. 

ing  down  his  eyes  upon  the  arching  neck  of  his  proud 
charger,  he  strove  not  to  see  the  many  miseries  of  the 
land  through  which  he  passed.  He  could  not  shut  his 
eyes  to  all,  however.  Every  now  and  then  the  horse 
would  recoil  from  a  corpse  stretched  across  his  way. 
Every  now  and  then  the  crashing  fall  of  some  burning 
cottage  or  Roman  watch-tower,  which  were  thick  upon 
the  road  towards  Viminacium,  would  make  him  start 
and  look  up,  and  behold  new  traces  of  ruin,  slaughter, 
and  desolation. 

They  passed  by  a  hamlet  where  once  many  happy 
hearths  had  gathered  round  a  small  Christian  church; 
but  the  hearths  were  strewed  with  the  rafters  that  had 
covered  them  ;  the  voice  of  the  pastor  and  the  hearts  of 
the  congregation  were  now  still  in  death ;  the  church 
was  void,  its  walls  smoking,  its  pavements  stained  with 
blood,  and  its  altar  profaned ;  and  silence  reigned  equally 
where  the  merry  laugh  and  the  gay  song  had  rejoiced 
in  the  blessings  of  God,  and  where  the  voice  of  suppli- 
cation or  of  gratitude  had  been  raised  to  him  in  prayer 
or  adoration. 

They  passed  by  a  villa  built  in  the  graceful  and  the 
mighty  times  of  Trajan,  while  the  name  of  Rome  was 
awful  over  all  the  earth ;  but  its  halls  and  vestibules, 
its  courts  and  gardens,  were  strewed  with  its  fragments 
of  works  of  art,  and  blackened  with  the  fire  which  had 
destroyed  its  fair  proportions. 

Oh  how  glad  was  Theodore,  when  the  gray  coming 
on  of  twilight  gave  him  the  hope  that  night  would  soon 
shut  out  from  his  weary  eyes  the  sight  of  such  scenes 
of  horror  and  devastation.  But,  alas!  even  when  dark- 
ness spread  over  the  whole  sky,  the  earth  beneath — as 
he  rode  along,  across  the  high  grounds  which  there 
sweep  down  to  the  Danube — seemed  glowing  in  a  thou- 
sand spots  with  the  lurid  hght  of  wide-spread  confla- 
gration ;  and  Theodore  beheld  the  destiny  of  his  native 
land.  Fire  consumed  each  dwelling's  roof-tree,  and 
blood  drowned  out  the  ashes. 

At  length,  at  the  bottom  of  the  hills,  where  a  small 
wood  skirted  one  of  the  little  rivers  they  had  to  cross, 
they  came  suddenly  upon  a  number  of  fires,  round  which 
were  seated  some  thousands  of  the  barbarians.  On  the 
approach  of  Edicon  and  his  party,  numbers  of  them 
started  up,  and,  leaving  the  loud  rude  merry-making  in 
which  they  were  engaged,  gathered  around  the  new 


ATTILA.  117 

comers,  with  wild  gestures  and  quick  vociferous  tongues 
talking,  laughing,  shouting,  and  screaming,  while  the 
fitful  gleams  of  the  fire  displayed,  in  strong,  unpleasant 
light  and  shade,  their  strange  attire  and  harsh  repulsive 
countenances.  Food  of  various  kinds  and  in  great  abun- 
dance was  set  before  Theodore  and  those  who  escorted 
him ;  but  the  young  Roman  felt  no  power  to  eat,  and 
only  quenched  the  burning  of  his  lip,  while  he  strove  to 
drown  remembrance  of  his  griefs  in  two  full  cups  of 
wine. 

"  We  must  on  with  the  first  light  to-morrow  morning," 
said  Edicon,  "  and  therefore  it  were  better  for  you  to 
take  what  sleep  you  can,  though,  perhaps,  being  a  Ro- 
man, you  cannot  find  slumber  on  such  a  couch  as  nature 
provided  for  man,  and  under  such  a  tent  as  the  starry 
sky." 

"  Sleep !"  cried  Theodore,  "  sleep !  Do  you  expect 
me  to  sleep  after  such  a  day  as  this  1  Such  sleep,  how- 
ever, as  I  can  gain  may  as  well  be  taken  here  as  any- 
where else,"  and,  wrapping  his  mantle  round  his  head, 
he  cast  himself  down  near  one  of  the  fires.  For  repose 
he  sought  not,  for  he  neither  hoped  nor  expected  to 
find  it,  but  he  sought  to  shut  out  from  his  sight  the 
fierce  forms  and  savage  merriment  of  those  who  had 
just  devastated  his  country.  With  his  eyes  closed,  and 
his  mantle  round  his  head,  he  saw  them  not,  it  is  true, 
but  still  the  wild  peals  of  barbarian  laughter  rang  in  his 
ears,  as  they  caroused  around  the  fires ;  still  imagina- 
tion called  up  to  his  view  the  rude,  ill-favoured  coun- 
tenances of  the  Huns ;  still  memory  presented  to  his 
fevered  brain  all  the  sad  and  painful  sights  which  he 
had  beheld  during  the  day. 

Thus  passed  by  the  greater  part  of  the  night ;  for, 
even  when  the  Huns,  giving  themselves  up  to  slumber, 
left  silence  to  recover  her  empire  over  the  scene  from 
which  their  rude  revels  had  banished  her,  bitter  remem- 
brance haunted  the  young  Roman  still,  and  drove  far 
away  from  his  troubled  breast  that  soft  and  soothing 
guest  which  visits  so  unwillingly  the  couch  of  pain  or 
w^o.  About  an  hour  before  dawn,  exhaustion,  however, 
conquered  thought ;  and  when  Edicon  roused  him  to 
proceed,  he  was  sleeping,  if  the  name  of  sleep  could  be 
applied  to  that  dull,  unrefreshing  want  of  consciousness 
into  which  he  had  fallen  for  the  time.  He  started  up, 
however,  ready  to  go  on,  ay,  and  wiUing ;  for  although 


118  ATTILA. 

he  could  hope  to  find  but  little  better  or  fairer  in  the 
things  before  him,  yet  every  scene  in  which  he  was 
placed  was,  for  the  time,  so  hateful  to  him,  that  it  was 
a  relief  and  consolation  even  to  change. 

The  road  lay  still  by  the  side  of  the  Danube ;  but, 
after  leaving  their  night's  resting-place,  it  was  evident 
that  they  were  coming  fast  upon  the  great  host  of  Attila 
himself.  Multitudes  of  small  wagons  covered  the  way. 
Thousands  of  straggling  parties  were  seen  in  every  di- 
rection ;  and  at  length,  after  riding  on  for  about  two 
hours,  they  came  in  sight  of  the  towers  of  a  city,  rising 
up  from  the  banks  of  the  river.  At  the  same  moment, 
as  they  stood  upon  the  hill  above  it,  a  shout  came  up 
to  the  ear  so  loud,  so  fierce,  so  demoniacal,  that  it 
seemed  to  Theodore  that  the  very  fiends  of  hell  had 
burst  forth  to  mingle  with  the  dark  innumerable  multi- 
tudes that  he  beheld  whirling  round  that  devoted  town 
like  the  waves  of  some  mighty  vortex  in  the  stormy 
oceans  of  the  north. 

Another  and  another  yell  succeeded ;  and  as  Edicon 
still  led  on  down  the  hill,  screams  of  anguish  could  be 
distinguished  mixing  with  the  shout,  and  fire  might  be 
seen  bursting  forth  from  various  parts  of  the  city. 

"Viminacium  is  taken!"  said  the  Hunnish  leader: 
"  we  shall  find  the  king  in  the  market-place ;  ride  close 
by  me,  and  let  us  on." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE    CAPTURED    CITY. 

In  one  dark,  close-rushing  stream  the  Huns  were 
pouring  into  Viminacium,  when  Theodore,  with  unut- 
terable agony  of  heart,  approached  the  gates  with  those 
who  held  him  a  prisoner.  It  was  an  hour  in  which  he 
could  full  well  have  died  with  scarcely  a  regret,  for 
every  sight  and  every  sound  around  him  spoke  nothing 
but  despair. 

A  few  words  from  his  conductor  brought  the  barbari- 
ans who  accompanied  them  pressing  round  the  young 
Roman,  so  as  to  keep  him  distinct  from  all  the  multi- 


ATTILA.  119 

tude  which  had  followed  Attila  to  his  first  actual  con- 
quest in  the  Roman  territory.  But  so  dense,  so  rapid, 
was  that  living  torrent,  that  after  they  had  once  entered 
the  gates  no  one  could  move  except  in  the  same  onward 
course ;  and,  knee  pressed  against  knee,  horse  jostling 
horse,  forward  they  rushed,  while  nothing  could  be  seen 
in  the  dark  long  street  but  an  ocean  of  human  heads, 
except  where  the  flames  burst  forth  from  dwellings, 
palaces,  and  temples,  and  formed  a  fiery  canopy  above 
them. 

To  see  beneath  the  horses'  feet  was  not  possible ;  but 
every  now  and  then  some  dreadful  indications,  on  which 
it  were  needless  to  dwell,  showed  Theodore  that  his 
charger's  feet  were  passing  over  a  pile  of  dead ;  and  still, 
amid  the  clang  and  rush  of  those  wild  horsemen,  burst 
forth  from  other  parts  of  the  city  the  same  long,  pier- 
cing, awful  shrieks,  M'hich  told  that  the  work  of  mas- 
sacre had  not  yet  ceased  within  those  ill-starred  walls. 
Wherever,  too,  a  street,  branching  to  either  side,  gave 
a  momentary  view  of  what  was  passing  beyond,  groups 
of  struggling  forms  were  seen,  with  heaps  of  corpses, 
falling  houses,  and  masterless  horses  galloping  hither 
and  thither,  and  rolling  clouds  of  smoke  writhing  in  dark 
masses  amid  the  building. 

Still,  however,  Edicon  pursued  his  way  straight  on, 
though  at  every  turning  some  body  of  the  Huns  left 
the  onward  path,  bent  on  plunder  or  on  bloodshed.  At 
length  the  way  opened  out  into  the  forum,  whose  wide 
space  was  covered  with  scattered  groups  of  the  barba- 
rian host,  w^hirling  here  and  there,  in  obedience  to  com- 
mands emanating  from  a  group  who  had  forced  their 
horses  up  the  steps  leading  to  the  temple  of  Mars. 

Here,  in  the  forum,  the  Roman  legionaries  had  made 
their  last  stand ;  and  here,  thick  and  many,  lay  the 
bodies  of  those  slain  by  hands  that  had  never  learned 
to  spare.  Here,  too,  dismounted  from  their  horses,  and 
stripping  the  yet  warm  dead  of  their  rich  arms  and  vest- 
ments, were  thousands  of  bloodstained  groups  of  the 
conquerors  :  and  here,  penned  up,  and  dying  man  by 
man,  was  the  last  determined  cohort  which  resisted  the 
barbarian  force.  Even  at  that  very  moment,  as  Edicon 
was  forcing  his  way  onward,  that  last  lingering  spark  of 
resistance  was  extinguished;  for  Theodore  could  see 
one  Hunnish  horseman,  followed  by  several  others,  urge 
his  horse  fiercely  down  the  steep  steps  of  the  temple, 


120  ATTILA. 

and  plunge  into  the  midst  of  the  multitude  which  was 
pressing  round  the  brave  men  of  Viminaciura.  A  loud 
shout  burst  from  the  barbarians  as  that  horseman  hurled 
himself  forward  like  a  thunderbolt  against  the  front  of 
the  cohort.  Its  line,  which  had  remained  firm  even  in 
despair,  was  rent  in  a  moment,  as  an  oak  that  has  with- 
stood the  winds  is  rent  by  the  lightning,  and  the  Ro- 
man helmets  disappeared  in  the  dark  mass  of  the  Huns. 
Again  that  same  horseman  separated  himself  from  the 
multitude,  rode  slowly  back  towards  the  temple,  and 
urged  his  horse  once  more  up  the  steep  and  slippery 
steps.  Towards  him  Edicon  pursued  his  way;  and, 
as  they  came  near,  Theodore  perceived  that  it  was, 
indeed,  towards  him  their  journey  had  been  directed. 

There,  advanced  before  the  rest,  Attila  sat  gazing 
from  his  battle-horse's  back  over  the  awful  scene  before 
his  eyes ;  while  near  him  an  equestrian  statue  of  Tra- 
jan, with  his  calm,  thoughtful  features,  and  a  bronze 
group  of  a  lion  tearing  a  bull,  contrasted  strangely,  and 
harmonized  well  with  the  fierce  and  heated  aspect  of 
the  stern  Hun,  as,  covered  with  blood  and  dust,  he  rolled 
his  flashing  dark  eyes  over  that  terrible  scene  of  mas- 
sacre, fire,  and  desolation. 

"  Oh,"  cried  Theodore,  as  they  came  near  the  steps, 
"  oh,  beseech  him  to  sheath  the  sword,  and  spare  the 
unresisting!"  and,  as  he  spoke,  he  naturally  urged  on  his 
horse,  to  plead  the  cause  of  his  miserable  countrymen 
with  one  who  had  shown  himself,  in  his  own  case,  not 
insensible  to  pity. 

But  Edicon  caught  his  bridle  quickly,  exclaiming, 
"  Speak  to  him  not !  Speak  to  him  not,  if  you  value  life ! 
See  you  not  that  the  mighty  spirit  of  war  is  upon  him. 
Speak  to  a  hungry  hon  tasting  the  first  blood !  Plead 
with  the  tiger  for  its  prey  !  But  cross  not  Attila  in  his 
hour  of  battle  and  victory !  Bleda,  his  brother,  might 
hear  you,  and  spare  you  at  the  time  to  slay  you  for  his 
pleasure  after;  but  were  you  to  cross  Attila  now,  he 
might  strike  dead  the  man  whom  to-morrow  he  would 
cherish  as  a  son." 

At  that  moment,  however,  the  eye  of  the  monarch 
lighted  on  the  garb  of  Theodore.  "  A  Roman  !"  he 
cried,  "  a  Roman  before  my  eyes !  Smite  him  to  the 
ground !     Give  his  heart  to  the  vultures !" 

The  youth  understood  not  his  words,  which  were 
spoken  in  the  Hunnish  tongue,  but  the  fierce  gestures 


ATTILA.  121 

of  the  barbarian  king  were  enough ;  and  at  the  same 
moment  a  hundred  spears  were  raised  around  to  drink 
the  Roman's  blood. 

"  Let  them  do  their  will,"  he  said,  calmly,  "  let  them 
do  their  will.  Who  would  love  life  after  such  sights 
as  these  V 

But  Edicon  interposed.  "Hold!"  he  cried,  to  those 
so  prompt  to  obey  in  any  work  of  blood — "  hold !  he  is 
the  king's  friend.  Attila  knows  him  not.  Oh  king !" 
he  continued,  raising  his  voice,  "  thou  hast  promised 
this  youth  protection :  wilt  thou  break  thy  promise  V 

Attila  rolled  his  eyes  over  the  whole  group  in  silence  ; 
and  Edicon,  with  those  who  surrounded  him,  well 
knowing  that  the  fierce  and  eager  mood  of  their  lord 
would  pass  away,  retired  slowly  from  his  sight,  lead- 
ing Theodore  with  them.  No  tranquil  spot,  however, 
no  place  of  refuge  or  repose,  did  that  wide  city  now 
contain.  Plunder  was  siill  going  on,  though  slaughter, 
insatiable  still,  even  when  gorging  upon  thousands, 
had  exhausted  nearly  all,  but  only  halted  for  want  of 
food.  Some  wretched  woman,  indeed,  or  some  helpless 
child,  was  dragged  every  now  and  then  from  its  ineffec- 
tual hiding-place,  and  a  solitary  scream  or  a  dying 
groan  marked  the  new  victim.  But  the  work  of  butch- 
ery was  now  wellnigh  complete ;  and  conflagration, 
spreading  rapidly  in  every  part,  threatened  to  consume 
the  barbarian  victors  themselves,  in  the  burning  city 
which  they  had  captured  and  destroyed. 

A  small  open  space,  near  what  was  called  Trajan's 
Gate,  at  length  afforded  a  place  of  repose  to  Edicon 
and  his  party ;  and  there,  following  the  example  of  the 
Huns,  Theodore  alighted  from  his  horse,  and,  sitting 
down  upon  one  of  the  massy  stone  steps  before  a  dwel- 
ling which  had  once  belonged  to  some  rich  banker,  and 
had  been  one  of  the  first  to  be  plundered  by  the  barba- 
rians, he  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hands,  and  tried  to 
shut  out  even  from  memory  the  horrors  which  he  had 
just  beheld. 

In  vain — it  was  vain !  Confused,  countless,  terrible 
images  and  feelings  of  destruction  and  despair  rushed 
through  his  burning  brain  and  his  indignant  heart,  and 
drove  him  wellnigh  to  madness.  At  length  two  or 
three  wild  notes  of  some  barbarian  trumpet,  loud,  long, 
and  melancholy,  sounded  through  the  streets,  and  were 
heard  above  the  general  roar  of  the  Hunnish  multi- 

VoL.  I.— L 


122  ATTILA. 

tudes,  coming  from  different  quarters  of  the  city.  Edi- 
con  s])rang  up  and  mounted  his  horse ;  and,  seeing 
Theodore  remain  in  the  same  attitude  of  despair,  he 
exchiimed,  "  Up,  up,  we  must  away !  It  is  dangerous 
to  hnger." 

Theodore  rose  slowly  ;  and  though  the  curling  flames 
which  at  once  struck  his  eye,  flickering  above  all  the 
buildings  around,  together  with  the  shower  of  sparks 
and  flakes  of  fire  which  were  falling  incessantly  from 
the  dense  and  lurid  clouds  of  smoke  above,  showed  that 
the  words  of  Edicon  were  true,  and  that  the  warning 
voice  of  the  trumpet  had  only  been  sounded  in  time ; 
yet  slow  and  heavily  did  the  young  Roman  rise,  as  if 
he  would  willingly  have  remained  to  die  in  the  flames  of 
that  vast  holocaust  to  the  barbarian  god  of  warfare.  In 
vain  the  Huns  urged  him  to  haste  ;  he  gazed  upon  them 
dark  and  gloomily,  as  if  the  bitterness  of  death  itself 
were  passed ;  and  they,  with  all  their  pov/er,  could  do 
no  more. 

With  strange  and  unusual  gentleness  for  one  of  so 
fierce  and  uncontrollable  a  nation,  Edicon  endeavoured 
to  persuade  him  to  follow  them  from  the  captured  city. 
He  offered  no  violence,  he  used  no  rude  command  ;  but, 
after  every  other  argument  had  failed  to  quicken  the 
movements  of  the  young  Roman,  he  added,  as  if  he 
could  have  divined  the  only  chord  which — left  strung 
and  resonant  wiiere  so  many  were  broken — could  still 
vibrate  the  touch,  "  Remember  that  there  are  others 
in  the  world  to  whom  your  life  is  dear;  beings  kind, 
beautiful,  and  beloved,  who  may  need  the  protection  of 
your  arm,  the  consolation  of  your  affection,  and  the 
shelter  of  your  breast." 

The  tears  rose  in  Theodore's  eyes :  but  the  thrilling 
life  of  human  hopes  and  fears  was  once  more  kindled 
from  among  the  dead  ashes  of  despair ;  and,  springing 
on  his  horse,  he  followed  wherever  they  would. 

Wild,  and  terrible,  and  extraordinary  was  the  scene 
of  confusion  and  disarray  which  followed,  while  the 
Huns,  some  fast  and  eagerly,  some  lingering  with  their 
appetite  for  plunder  still  unsated,  poured  forth  from  the 
gates  of  the  burning  city.  Order  and  ranks  were  there 
none.  Tumult  and  confusion,  loud  cries,  wild  laughter, 
shouts  of  triumph,  and  barbarous  songs,  dark  masses 
whirling  hither  and  thither,  horses,  wiiich  had  lost  their 
masters,  seeking  them  familiarly  through  the  crowd, 


ATTILA.  123 

the  rush  of  innumerable  multitudes,  and  the  mighty- 
hum  of  congregated  myriads,  formed  all  that  was  seen 
and  heard  over  the  wide  green  fields  which  surrounded 
what  a  few  hours  before  had  been  Viminacium — except 
when,  loud  and  slow,  surmounting  every  other  noise, 
were  heard  the  long,  melancholy  notes  of  the  barbarian 
trumpet,  calling  conquerors  from  the  work  of  spoil  and 
desolation. 

Sweeping  round  in  a  semicircle  upon  the  declivity  of 
the  hills  which  domineered  the  city,  the  host  of  Attila 
was  at  length  gathered  together,  at  the  end  of  about 
two  hours  after  Theodore  had  seen  the  barbarian  mon- 
arch in  the  forum.  The  youth  had  set  apart  upon  the 
edge  of  the  hill  gazing  upon  the  dim  multitudes,  as  they 
covered  and  struggled  up  the  intervening  space  between 
the  walls  and  the  spot  where  he  was  placed.  The 
same  party  of  Huns  which  had  always  hitherto  accom- 
panied him,  more  to  protect  than  to  detain  him,  re- 
mained Avith  him  still,  except,  indeed,  Edicon,  who  had 
left  him  for  the  time.  At  length,  however,  he  reap- 
peared, and,  sitting  down  beside  the  youth,  addressed 
him  kindly. 

"  The  king,"  he  said,  "  has  asked  for  you.  The  fierce 
cloud  of  strife  has  passed  away  from  his  heart,  and  the 
sun  will  shine  upon  those  that  approach  him  now.  Let 
us  draw  near.  Lo !  yonder  he  stands,  where  you  see 
the  crowd  upon  that  high  knoll.  The  warriors  are 
going  to  bring  their  booty  before  him.  If  thou  hast 
any  boon  to  ask  at  his  hands,  ask  it  now." 

Theodore  rose,  and  followed  on  foot,  though  there 
was  a  fevered  weariness  in  his  blood,  a  confused  gid- 
diness in  his  brain,  which  prevented  him  from  clearly 
comprehending,  or,  indeed,  from  taking  any  interest  in 
the  words  that  were  addressed  to  him.  Even  when  he 
had  approached  the  presence  of  him  on  whom  his  whole 
fate  now  depended,  the  objects  passed  before  him  as  if 
in  some  unreal  pageant,  wherein  he  had  no  feehngs  en- 
gaged, and  by  which  curiosity  and  admiration  were 
hardly  excited. 

There  sat  Attila  on  horseback,  and  beside  him  a  taller 
and  a  younger  chieftain,  with  keen  sharp  eyes,  and  a  low 
fierce  brow.  In  his  countenance  there  might  be  more 
of  cunning,  but  there  was  less  of  power  and  intellect 
than  in  that  of  Attila;  and,  as  Edicon  caught  the  eye 


124  ATTILA. 

of  the  young  stranger  wandering  over  his  form,  he  whis- 
pered, "  That  is  Bleda,  the  brother  of  the  king." 

Theodore  paused,  where  his  companion  paused,  at 
no  great  distance  from  the  spot  where  the  two  leaders 
stood,  and  looked  on,  while  the  whole  host  passed  in 
long  line  before  the  kings  and  their  immediate  follow- 
ers, casting  down  in  a  pile  all  the  rich  and  costly  plun- 
der which  had  been  acquired  in  the  first  capture  of  a 
Roman  city.  How  often,  in  the  course  of  the  succeeding 
months,  was  that  scene  to  be  repeated !  There  were 
the  chased  and  jewelled  cups  and  chahces  which  had 
graced  the  merry  banquet,  and  poured  the  hbation  of 
hope  or  gratitude ;  there  the  sacred  vessels  of  the  church ; 
there  the  gems  and  ornaments  torn  from  the  neck  of 
beauty,  and  from  the  violated  limbs  of  the  tender,  the 
gentle,  and  the  beloved.  There  was  poured  out  the 
miser's  long-accumulated  store  ;  there  the  early  gift  of 
young  affection ;  there  the  inestimable  product  of  ancient 
art ;  there  the  shining  mass,  only  prized  for  its  intrinsic 
value.  Each  object  there  cast  down  recorded  some 
deed  of  profanation,  either  of  sacred  civil  order,  or  of 
holy  piety,  or  of  the  sweet  sanctity  of  calm  domestic  life : 
each  spoke  trumpet-tongued  against  the  horrid,  the  des- 
olating trade  of  war  ;  the  honoured,  lauded,  and  reward- 
ed curse,  parent  of  murder,  violence,  and  wrong. 

Theodore  scarcely  remarked  the  division  of  the  spoil, 
though  he  perceived  that  no  voice,  no,  not  even  that 
of  Bleda,  was  raised  against  the  stern  but  just  allot- 
ment made  by  Attila.  Each  soldier  received  his  share ; 
and  each  seemed  to  hear  with  reverence  the  words  of 
his  leader,  and  to  gaze  with  awe  upon  the  countenance 
of  him  whose  steps  seemed  destined  to  crush  thrones 
into  the  dust,  and  on  whose  breath  hung  the  fate  of  na- 
tions and  of  empires. 

When  the  division  was  over,  Attila  turned  his  eyes 
upon  Theodore.  "  Bid  the  Roman  approach,"  he  said ; 
and  the  youth  advanced  to  the  spot  where  he  sat  on 
the  same  horse  which  had  borne  him  through  the  sack- 
ing of  the  city.  His  countenance,  however,  was  now 
mild  and  calm ;  and  the  tone  in  which  he  addressed  to 
Theodore  some  simple  words  of  greeting  was  kind  and 
father-like.  Bleda  said  nothing  ;  but  he  rolled  his  fierce 
eyes  over  the  form  of  the  young  stranger,  and  his  whole 
countenance  spoke  the  unmitigated  hate  which  he  felt 
towards  everything  that  bore  the  Roman  name. 


ATTILA.  125 

Theodore  listened  to  the  words  of  the  monarch 
calmly  ;  and  then  at  once  replied,  "  Oh  king !  I  have  a 
boon  to  ask  at  thy  hands ;  1  beseech  thee  to  grant  it 
muo  me." 

"  Speak,"  said  Attila,  in  the  tongue  of  the  Alani ;  but 
Bleda  muttered  in  the  same  language,  "  Dash  his  brains 
out  with  an  axe !  that  were  the  best  boon  to  give 
him." 

Attila's  brow  darkened ;  but,  without  noticing  further 
than  by  that  heavy  frown  his  brother's  words,  he  bade 
the  youth  proceed. 

"  Thou  art  mighty,  oh  king !"  said  Theodore,  "  alas  ! 
too  mighty ;  and,  it  may  be,  that,  ere  thou  receivest 
defeat  from  the  Roman  arms"  (Attila  smiled),  "many 
such  a  city  as  this  that  thou  hast  to-day  destroyed  may 
fall  before  thee — " 

"  Many  shall  fall !"  interrupted  Attila :  "  I  will  tread 
upon  their  towers  from  Margus  to  Byzantium.  I  will 
mow  the  land  as  with  a  scythe  :  I  will  shake  the  armies 
from  before  my  path,  as  a  lion  shakes  off  the  morning 
dew  from  his  mane.  The  fortified  cities  will  I  lay  low, 
and  the  open  villages  I  will  burn,  and  my  horses  shall 
eat  up  the  grass  of  the  whole  land.  There  shall  be  no 
green  thing,  and  no  beautiful  thing,  and  no  living  thing, 
left  throughout  the  country,  unless  speedy  compensa- 
tion for  the  wrongs  done  to  me  and  to  my  people  avert 
the  wrath,  and  turn  away  the  storm :  but  yet,  what 
wouldst  thou  V 

"  This,  oh  king  !"  replied  Theodore  ;  "  my  eye  cannot 
witness  the  desolation  of  my  native  land.  Either  my 
heart  will  cease  to  beat,  or  my  brain  will  turn,  if  I  be- 
hold more  of  such  scenes  as  those  which  I  have  this 
day  beheld,  I  am  thine  to  do  with  as  thou  pleasest, 
and  I  will  keep  the  promise  I  have  made ;  but,  I  do  be- 
seech thee,  send  me  afar  from  such  sights.  Let  me  go 
into  thine  own  country  ;  and  I  swear,  by  all  that  I  hold 
sacred,  to  remain  there  tranquilly  till  thou  returnest." 
,  "I  know  not  how  that  may  be,"  rephed  the  king: 
"  thy  life  is  dear  to  me,  youth ;  and  were  a  Roman  now 
to  show  himself  in  the  land  of  the  Huns,  without  pro- 
tection and  support,  except,  indeed,  as  a  captive,  the 
stream  of  his  days  would  soon  fall  into  the  great  gulf  of 
death." 

"  If  thou  takest  rae  on,"  cried  Theodore,  "  to  witness 
the  murder  of  my  fellow-countrymen,  the  ruin  and  de- 
„     L3 


126  ATTILA. 

vastation  of  my  native  land,  thou  slayest  me  by  a  worse' 
death  than  any  of  thy  people  can  inflict." 

"Well,  thou  Shalt  go  back,"  replied  Attila;  "but  I 
will  send  people  with  thee,  to  protect  thee  in  my  name, 
till  thou  art  known  and  in  safety  in  the  land.  I  cannot 
spare  thee,  Edicon ;  but  he  shall  choose  others  who  can 
speak  some  of  the  languages  thou  knowest :  ours  thou 
wilt  soon  learn.  Follow  me  until  this  night  be  over; 
to-morrow  thou  shalt  depart.  See  to  his  repose,  Edi- 
con, and  find  him  wherewithal  to  cover  him  from  the 
night  air.  These  Romans  are  not,  as  we  are,  familiar 
with  the  elements." 

Edicon  smiled;  and  Theodore  felt  the  scorn  which 
had  fallen  upon  his  nation ;  but  he  replied  not,  for  the 
reproach  was  too  true ;  and,  retiring  from  the  presence 
of  Attila,  he  felt  his  heart  relieved  at  the  certainty  of 
being  no  longer  forced  to  contemplate  with  his  own  eyes 
all  the  horrors  that  awaited  his  native  land. 

In  their  eager  and  fiery  course  towards  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  Roman  empire,  the  Huns  knew  no  pause,  lin» 
gered  for  no  repose.  Ere  noon,  Viminacium  was  a 
heap  of  ashes ;  ere  two  hours  more  had  passed,  the  di- 
vision of  their  plunder  had  taken  place  ;  and,  ere  another 
had  gone  by,  the  unwearied  myriads  were  again  upon 
their  way,  to  repeat  the  same  scenes  of  slaughter  and 
destruction.  At  nightfall  they  halted.  The  innumera- 
ble small  wagons,  which  followed  them  with  a  celerity 
quite  marvellous,  formed  at  once  the  ramparts  of  their 
principal  camp  and  the  abode  of  such  as  were  affected 
by  some  touch  of  softer  manners.  In  the  centre  of  the 
camp  was  raised  the  standard  of  the  king,  the  rude  black 
eagle  crowned  ;*  and  round  it,  at  the  distance  of  about 
a  hundred  cubits,  was  drawn  an  inner  circle  of  wagons  ; 
but  in  the  clear  and  starry  nights  of  summer,  no  tent  or 
awning  covered  the  head  of  Attila;  and  beneath  that 
victorious  banner,  which  he  carried  unchecked  from 
Caucasus  to  Gaul,  he  lay  stretched  upon  the  hide  of  a 
wild  bull,  which  his  own  hand  had  slain. 

Round  about  the  great  camp  were  a  number  of  smal- 
ler enclosures ;  some  appropriated  to  different  tribes 
and  nations,  who  followed  the  multitude  of  the  Huns 
in  their  career  of  victory  and  pillage  ;  some  assigned 
to  various  friends  and  officers  of  the  great  monarch 

*  It  was  called  Astur,  and  is  supposed  to  have  been  the  same  as 
the  tributary  bird  of  the  Tartars  named  the  Schon^ar. 


ATTILA.  127 

himself.  Nevertheless,  the  warrior  horsemen  of  that 
innumerable  host  did  not  confine  themselves,  where 
they  feared  no  attack,  to  the  circle  of  their  encamp- 
ment, but,  spreading  over  the  plain  around,  spent  the 
early  hours  of  the  night  in  feasting  and  revelry. 

Theodore,  with  Edicon,  who  showed  for  him  on  all 
occasions  kindness  and  consideration,  which  was  little 
to  be  expected  from  one  of  so  barbarous  a  race,  fol- 
lowed full  half  an  hour  behind  the  general  march  of 
the  army,  in  order  to  avoid  those  sights  of  occasional 
violence  and  cruelty  which  were  sure  to  take  place, 
even  in  the  thinly-peopled  part  of  the  country  which 
they  now  traversed.  When  they  reached  the  spot, 
therefore,  on  which  Attila  had  fixed  for  his  encamp- 
ment, night  had  already  fallen ;  and  for  several  miles 
around  were  to  be  seen  blazing  up  a  countless  number 
of  fires,  with  scarcely  fifty  yards  from  the  one  to  the 
other,  and  with  a  circle  of  those  wild  soldiers  surround- 
ing and  carousing  about  each.  Little  was  the  attention 
which  they  paid  to  the  new-comers,  as  they  rode 
through  the  midst  of  them ;  and  Edicon,  by  frequently 
stopping  to  speak  to  those  he  knew,  gave  his  compan- 
ion a  full  insight  into  the  habits  of  that  roving  people. 
\Ye  must  not  pause  thereon,  for  this  is  not  intended  for 
a  book  of  description ;  and  yet  it  was  a  wild,  strange 
scene  that  he  beheld,  full  of  matter  of  disgust  and  sor- 
row, and  yet  not  without  interest  either.  There  all 
the  vices  of  a  savage  state  were  displayed ;  while 
some  peculiar  virtues,  and  some  of  those  strong  enthu- 
siasms which,  though  not  virtues,  find  chords  of  sym- 
pathy in  every  noble  heart,  broke  forth  from  time  to 
time,  and  shed  a  lustre  over  the  mingled  whole. 

At  some  of  the  fires,  reclining  or  sitting  in  grotesque 
or  picturesque  attitudes,  lay  groups  of  the  wild  Scyth- 
ians, in  their  strange  but  striking  dresses,  drinking  deep 
of  various  liquors,  which  they  had  either  compounded 
or  plundered ;  and  in  the  eyes  of  many  the  fiery  gleam 
of  intemperance  was  already  shining,  while  with  hoarse 
laughter  and  savage  gesticulation  they  detailed  the 
deeds  of  the  day  or  mocked  the  agonies  of  their  vic- 
tims. Round  other  fires,  again,  gaming,  with  the  same 
eagerness,  the  same  loud  words  and  fierce  anxieties,  so 
often  to  be  found  disgracing  the  capitals  of  civilized 
lands,  might  be  observed  other  bodies  of  barbarians 
moved  by  another  class  of  passions.    Then,  again,  far- 


123  ATTILA. 

ther  on,  gazing  with  eager  eyes,  or  listening  with  acute 
ears,  and  answering  with  bursts  of  thoughtless  merri- 
ment, sat  other  bodies  of  the  Huns,  around  some  buf- 
foon or  jester,*  in  whose  tale,  or  whose  joke,  or  whose 
antic  contortions  their  whole  thoughts  seemed  to  be 
engaged,  forgetful  of  the  bloody  yesterday,  unmindful 
of  the  bloody  morrow.  Farther  still  rose  up  the  voice 
of  song ;  and,  in  notes  not  unmelodious,  some  native 
minstrel  sung  of  love  and  war ;  praised  the  beauties  of 
some  honoured  fair,  or  extolled  the  valour  of  some 
mighty  chief.  There,  too,  around  him  might  be  seen 
the  dark  countenances  of  those  sw^arthy  children  of  the 
North,  moved  by  all  the  deep  emotions  which  his  song 
touched  through  the  fine  chords  of  association.  There 
the  youth  leaned  back ;  and,  as  he  listened  to  the  name 
of  love,  or  heard  the  glowing  words  which  painted 
some  fair  creation  of  the  singer's  mind,  memory  turned 
towards  his  native  home,  affection  held  up  before  his 
eyes  the  image  of  the  one  beloved,  and  his  heart  beat 
with  eager  palpitations  at  the  gentler  and  the  sweeter 
thoughts  poured  into  his  rude  breast.  There,  too, 
might  be  seen  the  elder  and  the  sterner  soldier,  who, 
when  the  song  took  up  the  tale  of  war,  and  told  of 
things  achieved  by  glorious  courage,  lands  conquered, 
thrones  acquired,  and  everlasting  glory  won,  would  half 
start  from  his  grassy  bed,  and,  resting  on  his  arm,  gaze 
with  flashing  eyes  and  stirred  up  enthusiasms  upon 
the  singer,  and,  with  fond  anticipations  of  the  future, 
promise  his  own  heart  the  glorious  meed  of  deeds  re- 
corded in  a  song  like  that.  Oh,  beautiful,  universal 
nature !  noble  feelings !  touching  harmonies  of  the 
musical  heart  of  man !  why,  why  among  you  must  be 
thrown  so  many  discords  to  bring  out  your  sweetness  1 
Why  can  we  not  have  on  earth  the  perfect  harmony  1 
where,  from  the  lowest  to  the  highest,  from  the  most 
solemn  to  the  gayest  note,  all  may  find  place,  and  rise 
in  one  grand,  all-comprising  anthem  to  the  God  of  all  ? 

*  We  find  from  all  records  that  the  Huns  were  peculiarly  fond  ol 
gaming  and  of  buffoons. 


ATTILA.  129 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE    PERIL    AxND    ESCAPE. 

It  was  to  one  of  those  detached  circles,  which  we 
have  described  as  separated  from  the  general  encamp- 
ment, that  Edicon  led  the  way,  after  speaking  with 
several  of  the  chiefs,  as  they  passed  along.  It  had 
been  apparently  reserved  for  himself  and  those  who 
followed  him,  for  the  enclosure  was  nearly  vacant,  ex- 
cept where,  before  the  entrance  of  a  tall  but  curiously- 
formed  tent,  which  had  probably  been  taken  in  war 
from  some  Eastern  nation,  blazed  up  a  large  and  cheer- 
ful fire.  Around  were  seated  about  a  dozen  Huns,  not 
less  wild  and  fierce  in  the  expression  of  their  faces 
than  the  rest  of  their  nation ;  and  yet  there  was  some- 
thing about  their  dress  and  general  appearance  which 
struck  Theodore  as  more  familiar  to  his  eye.  As  he 
approached,  one  of  them  rose  and  addressed  him  in  the 
Latin  language,  and  welcomed  him  to  his  tent  with 
great  purity  of  speech  and  accent ;  and  oh,  how  sweet 
and  musical  did  those  sounds  appear,  after  the  strange, 
harsh  tongues  which  had  lately  rung  in  his  ear,  amid 
scenes  of  ruin,  bloodshed,  and  strife  ! 

Sweet,  sweet  indeed  it  was,  but  overpowering.  He 
felt  the  tears  ready  to  gush  from  his  eyes ;  a  word 
would  have  made  them  overflow ;  and,  without  speak- 
ing, he  entered  the  tent  to  which  the  man  had  pointed. 
It  contained  nothing  in  the  outer  chamber  of  the  two, 
into  which  it  was  divided  by  a  curtain,  but  a  lighted 
lamp  upon  a  small  table ;  and  in  the  inner  a  bed,  piled 
up  of  skins,  with  a  single  wooden  settle.  It  had  an  air, 
however,  of  civilization  and  comfort ;  and  how  often  is 
it  in  this  life  that  the  air  has  more  influence  upon  our 
happiness  than  even  the  reality  \  We  are  the  slaves  of 
association,  and,  as  such,  truly  but  children  of  a  larger 
growth,  to  whom  the  paint  and  tinsel  of  appearances 
render  the  toy  valuable,  whatever  be  its  intrinsic  worth. 

Theodore  cared  little  for  the  comfort,  and  thought 
Roman  civilization  had  fallen  into  effeminacy ;  and  yet 
the  sight  of  that  tent,  like  the  sound  of  Roman  words, 


130  ATTILA. 

sent  a  thrill  through  his  heart,  and  made  him  happier. 
Edicon  saw  his  emotion,  and  seemed  to  understand  its 
cause,  at  least  in  part. 

"  You  are  surprised,"  he  said,  "  to  hear  the  Latin 
tongue  ;  but  you  will  be  more  so  to  know  that  there  are 
several  thousands  in  our  host  who  can  use  it  fluently." 

"  I  have  heard,"  replied  Theodore,  "  when  I  was  in 
Rome,  that  .^Etius,  the  great  general  in  Gaul,  has  several 
bodies  of  Huns  among  his  mercenaries."* 

"Ay,  and  Valentinian  also,"  rejoined  Edicon.  "  Not 
two  yeai'S  since  full  ten  thousand  of  our  nation  were 
engaged  in  defence  of  the  Western  empire.  We  are 
too  near  neighbours  to  the  East  to  have  such  friendly 
commerce  with  her.  Besides,  Theodosius  is  unworthy 
the  defence  of  brave  men — a  mere  weak  coward,  a 
flimsy  knave,  whose  only  means  of  proving  his  man- 
hood is  by  murdering  with  hired  steel  the  only  honest 
and  noble  men  left  to  save  his  empire." 

Edicon  struck  the  chord  aright,  and  Theodore's  heart 
replied,  though  his  lips  were  silent.  "  These  men," 
continued  the  Hunnish  chief,  pointing  to  the  barbarians, 
who  were  again  seated  round  the  fire,  and  took  but  lit- 
tle notice  either  of  Theodore  or  their  newly-arrived 
companions,  who  had  followed  him  with  Edicon — 
"  these  men  have  been  chosen  by  the  king  himself,  not 
because  they  speak  thy  language  better  than  others  in 
the  camp,  but  because  they  are  known  as  faithful  and 
just.  They  will  accompany  thee  back  into  our  land ; 
and,  though  they  go  with  regret,  thou  wilt  find  them 
true  and  trustworthy.  Ten  more  will  be  added,  whom 
thou  mayst  choose  either  from  among  the  Huns  who 
have  lived  with  the  Romans,  or  from  among  thy  kins- 
men the  Alani." 

"  I  will  choose  the  Alani,"  answered  Theodore,  quick- 
ly ;  and  he  observed,  as  he  spoke,  the  brow  of  his  com- 
panion contract  as  if  he  were  oflfended — "  I  will  choose 
the  Alani — not,  noble  Edicon,"  he  added,  "  that  I  doubt 
or  distrust  the  Huns,  for  to  me  they  have  been  merci- 
ful, kind,  and  generous,  whatever  violence  and  cruelty 
they  may  have  shown  in  deahng  with  my  native  land. 
But  remember  that  those  I  love  the  best  have  gone  to 
seek  a  refuge  with  the  Alan  tribes ;  and  perchance,  by 

*  Not  only  was  such  the  case,  but  in  various  contentions  in  the 
empire,  hired  bodies  of  the  Huns  were  frequently  found  fighting  on 
both  sidea,  and  doing  their  duty  faithfully. 


ATTILA.  131 

having  some  of  ILem  near  me,  I  may  learn,  as  I  go,  ti- 
dings which  will  cheer  and  console  me  to  hear." 

"  Not  only  as  you  go,"  answered  Edicon,  with  a  smile, 
"  but  afterward  also  ;  for  those  who  are  now  chosen  to 
accompany  you  are  not  only  directed  to  be  your  guard 
by  the  way,  but  are  also  given  you — not  as  servants  to 
a  lord,  but  as  followers  to  a  leader,  and  will  obey  you  in 
all  things,  as  far  as  our  customs  permit,  so  long  as  you 
remain  with  us." 

"It  is  strange,"  answered  Theodore,  thoughtfully; 
"  your  king,  so  harsh  and  fierce  towards  others,  is  so 
gentle  and  merciful  to  me — considers  my  wants,  pro- 
vides for  my  security,  and  cares  for  my  comfort  as  if 
he  were  a  father." 

"  Receive  it  all  with  gratitude,"  rephed  Edicon,  "  and 
he  may  prove  a  father  to  you.  Nor  must  you  think 
Attila  harsh  and  fierce  towards  any,  except  in  the  hour 
of  battle,  when  the  spirit  of  war  is  upon  him,  and  with 
the  powers  of  a  god  he  claims  the  attribute  of  ven- 
geance. No !  though  grave  and  stern,  he  is  just  and 
humane  towards  his  people.  Determined  in  his  pur- 
poses, inflexible  in  his  judgments,  his  purposes  towards 
those  who  obey  him  are  mild,  his  judgments  even 
against  himself  are  equitable.  It  is  only  the  traitor 
among  his  own  people,  the  aggressor  among  foreign 
nations,  that  he  treats  with  rigour." 

"  Think  me  not  ungrateful,"  said  Theodore  ;  "  I  meant 
not  to  accuse  thy  monarch ;  and  while  I  felt  thankful 
for  the  tenderness  he  hath  shown  to  me  and  mine — 
thankful  for  life  and  liberty  preserved,  and  for  the  safe- 
ty of  those  who  are  dearer  to  me  than  life  itself — I  have 
been  forced  to  marvel  that  he  has  dealt  so  diflferent  a 
measure  to  me  and  to  others.  There  is  something 
strange  in  it." 

"  There  may  be  so,"  replied  Edicon ;  "  but  think  you 
there  are  no  such  things  as  sudden  intimations  given  us 
from  Heaven  of  those  with  whom  our  fate  is  to  be 
linked  for  good  or  evil  1  Think  you  that  those  prepos- 
sessions for  or  against,  which  we  feel  so  suddenly,  so 
unaccountably,  in  rare  and  extraordinary  cases,  are 
mere  fancies,  passing  whims,  which  have  no  reference 
to  after  events  V 

Theodore  made  no  reply,  for  he  remembered  well  his 
own  peculiar  feelings  when  he  had  first  seen  that  pow- 
erful monarch  with  whom  his  own  destiny  had  since 


132  ATTILA. 

been  so  completely  mingled.  He  remembered  it  well,, 
but  he  answered  not,  for  the  Hun  seemed  to  have  seen 
his  feelings,  or  at  least  divined  them ;  and  at  length 
Edicon  went  on : — "  Such  may  have  been  the  prepos- 
session of  Attila  towards  you  ;  and  we  know,  or  at  least 
believe,  that  the  feelings  I  have  mentioned  are  given  us 
by  the  gods,  to  let  us  know  our  friends  and  enemies. 
Does  not  the  horse  tremble  when  the  unseen  lion  is 
near "?  Do  not  the  bleatings  of  the  sheep  warn  the 
shepherd  to  watch  even  while  the  wolf  is  yet  afar  off]" 

He  paused  a  moment  for  reply,  and  then  added — 
"  But  I  will  leave  you  to  repose  ;  and  yet,  ere  you  seek 
sleep,  take  some  food,  for  your  eyes  are  haggard  and 
hollow,  your  cheek  burning  as  if  this  tent  were  a  fur- 
nace, and  you  have  neither  drunk  mead  nor  broken 
bread  during  the  whole  day.  Bid  a  slave  bring  food," 
he  continued,  speaking  to  those  without ;  and  then,  ta- 
king from  one  of  his  own  followers  the  sword  w^hich 
Theodore  had  left  in  his  hands,  he  laid  it  down  on  the 
small  table  by  the  lamp,  saying,  "  You  are  now  turning 
to  another  land.  Keep  your  weapon,  for,  whether  you 
need  it  or  not,  it  is  always  well  to  be  prepared.  Add 
to  it  a  javelin  and  a  bow;  for,  as  you  go  through  our 
country,  you  may  strike  a  stag  or  a  wild  bull,  and  gain 
honours  in  the  chase,  which  we  hold  next  to  war.  I 
will  now  leave  you,  and  see  you  to-morrow  ere  you  de- 
part." 

Thus  saying,  his  conductor  left  him,  and  a  frightful  | 
negro  slave,  precious  in  the  eyes  of  the  Huns  from  the  : 
hideousness  of  his  face  and  figure,  brought  him  cooked 
meat  and  thin  cakes  of  flour,  with  a  strong  drink  com- 
posed of  honey.  Theodore  tried  to  eat,  but  only  few 
were  the  mouthfuls  he  could  swallow,  though  the  meat 
was  not  unsavoury.  He  tried,  too,  to  drink ;  but  there 
was  a  burning  heat  in  his  throat  and  mouth,  and  the 
sweet  liquor  was  revolting  to  his  taste. 

"  1  will  bring  wine,"  said  the  negro  slave,  in  tolerable 
Greek ;  "  I  am  a  present  from  Attila  the  King  to  his 
Roman  son,  and  he  is  henceforth  my  lord.  Wilt  thou 
have  wine  1  for  it  shall  go  ha,rd  but,  with  mine  own  wit 
and  Attila's  name  to  bear  me  out,  I  will  find  you  as  pure 
wine  in  the  Hunnish  camp  as  ever  you  tasted  in  the 
city  of  Constantine." 

"  I  would  rather  have  pure  water,"  answered  Theo- 


ATTILA.  133 

dore  ;  "  I  have  a  painful  thirst  upon  me ;  and  heart  and 
tongue  feel  burning  as  if  with  fire." 

The  slave  sprang  away,  and  returned  in  a  few  mo- 
ments with  both  water  and  wine  ;  and  mingling  them  to- 
gether, Theodore  drank  with  delight  which  he  had  not 
known  for  long. 

"  I  thank  thee,  friend,"  he  said,  giving  his  hand  to  the 
slave  in  gratitude  for  the  blessed  draught :  "  it  is  exqui- 
site, and  I  thank  thee." 

The  slave  took  his  hand  and  kissed  it,  gazing  intently 
on  his  face  ;  and  then,  seeing  by  the  calm  and  grateful 
sincerity  of  the  young  Roman's  look  that  no  scorn  ex- 
isted in  his  bosom  towards  that  deformed  and  frightful 
shape  which  crouched  at  his  feet,  he  sprang  up,  saying, 
"  I  have  deceived  you,  but  I  will  not  betray  you.  I 
am  not  sent  by  Attila,  but  by  Bleda,  his  brother.  Be- 
ware of  him  !     Roman,  beware  of  him !" 

"  I  have  no  cause  to  fear  him,"  answered  Theodore  : 
"  I  have  done  naught  to  injure  him." 

The  slave  shook  his  head  mournfully.  "  Are  we  only 
injured  by  those  whom  we  have  injured  1"  he  demanded. 
"•  Alas !  were  it  so,  I  should  not  be  what  I  am.  But  I 
must  speed  hence,  and  not  talk  with  thee  too  long,  lest 
he  hear  that  I  have  done  so,  and  think  I  have  betrayed 
him." 

"/But  tell  me,  what  is  thy  nameT'  demanded  Theo- 
dore. "  I  have  naught  to  give  thee  as  a  reward,  but 
some  day,  perchance,  I  may  have,  and  I  will  not  fail." 

"  My  name  is  Zercon,"  answered  the  slave ;  "  and  I 
am  the  crooked  and  mutilated  jester  of  Bleda,  the 
brother  of  Attila.  Thou  hast  looked  upon  me  with 
eyes  of  feeling  and  compassion,  and  I  am  rewarded 
enough ;  but  I  will  sen^e  thee  further  still." 

Thus  saying,  he  left  the  tent,  and  drew  the  exter- 
nal curtain  closely  after  him.  Theodore  paused  to 
think  over  what  he  had  heard  ;  but,  as  he  reflected,  he 
could  find  in  all  the  wide  range  of  probability  no  cause 
why  Bleda  should  seek  to  injure  him — "  There  must  be 
some  mistake,"  he  thought ;  and,  overpowered  with 
weariness  and  exhaustion,  he  laid  his  sword  close 
beside  the  bed  of  skins,  and  casting  himself  down,  en- 
deavoured to  forget  his  cares  in  slumber.  Restless, 
unhappy,  fevered,  long  and  painfully  he  tossed  upon 
that  lowly  couch,  courting  in  vain  the  blessed  influence 
which  opens  for  us,  for  a  while,  those  gates  of  care, 
Vol.  I.— M 


134  ATTILA. 

that  shut  us  in  the  dreary  prison  of  ourself.  The  faintly- 
burning  lamp  stood  beside  him ;  and  by  its  pale  light, 
as  his  eye  roved  round,  the  dark  hangings  of  the  tent 
became  peopled  with  the  spectres  of  imagination.  His 
father  passed  before  him,  as  he  last  had  seen  him  at 
Byzantium  ;  but  his  garments  were  spotted  and  dabbled 
with  blood,  and  his  countenance  was  pale  with  the 
ashy  hue  of  death.  Then  came  Flavia,  with  a  crown 
upon  her  head,  and  a  shroud  about  her  person.  Then 
he  beheld  Eudochia  struggling  in  the  arms  of  a  fierce 
and  eager  form,  and  then  Ildica  glided  across  the  scene, 
clothed  in  bridal  robes,  and  with  her  left  hand  clasped 
in  that  of  a  wild,  shadowy  shape,  which  led  her  slowly 
forward,  while  in  her  right  she  carried  a  naked  dagger, 
dropping  as  she  went  large  gouts  of  crimson  blood. 

He  knew,  he  felt,  that  it  was  all  delusion,  but  yet  he 
could  not  banish  the  swarming  fancies  that  disturbed 
his  brain,  and  even  deceived  the  organ  of  sight  itself. 
He  closed  his  eyes,  and  resolutely  turned  his  face  to 
the  wall  of  the  tent,  near  which  he  lay,  and  employed 
himself  in  listening  to  the  various  sounds  which  rose 
up  from  the  myriads  spread  over  that  wide  plain.  Al- 
though there  were  some  noises  which  might  be  distin- 
guished from  the  rest,  an  occasional  burst  of  laughter, 
the  loud  and  measured  tones  of  some  singer  or  reciter, 
or  the  wild  notes  of  various  rude  instruments  of  music, 
yet  the  general  buzz  of  all  the  many  voices  far  and  near 
came  upon  his  ear  with  a  drowsy  and  lulhng  hum,  M^hich 
gradually  brought  on  an  inclination  to  sleep.  As  time 
passed,  too,  the  louder  and  more  distinct  sounds  died 
away,  and  the  whole  subsided  into  a  low  and  whisper- 
ing rustle,  which  was  like  the  noise  of  the  sea  upon  a 
pebbly  shore,  only  that  it  wanted  the  regular  intermis- 
sion of  the  successive  waves.  Forgetfulness  fell  upon 
him  ;  but  in  a  moment  he  awoke  again  with  a  quick 
start,  gazed  round  to  see  where  he  was,  felt  the  load  of 
care  pressed  back  upon  memory,  and  hastened  again  to 
close  his  eyes,  and  cast  it  off  once  more. 

He  slept  again,  and  this  time  more  profoundly  than 
the  last,  though  his  breathing  was  short  and  thick,  and 
his  limbs  tossed  to  and  fro.  The  lamp  burnt  more 
and  more  dimly.  The  sounds  in  the  camp  fell  into 
silence,  only  broken  now  and  then  by  the  wild  neighing 
of  a  war-horse. 

At  length,  a  little  before  midnight,  the  curtain,  which 


ATTILA.  135 

separated  the  tent  into  two  chambers,  and  which  he  had 
let  drop  when  he  lay  down  to  rest,  trembled  as  with  a 
slight  wind — was  slowly  moved — was  drawn  back ;  and 
a  tall,  powerful  form  took  a  step  within,  and  let  it 
quietly  fall  again.  Two  more  paces  brought  him  to  the 
side  of  the  couch  Avhere  the  young  Roman  lay,  and, 
with  arms  folded  on  his  chest,  the  giant-like  intruder 
gazed  upon  the  sleeping  youth,  and  then  looked  cau- 
tiously round  the  tent.  When  he  had  done  so  twice,  he 
blew  out  the  lamp,  and  drawing  over  his  tall  form  the 
mantle  which  Theodore  had  cast  off,  he  crouched  him- 
self down  at  the  foot  of  his  bed.  All  was  still  and  silent 
but  the  quick,  heavy  breathing  of  the  Roman  youth,  and 
the  rustling  of  his  clothes,  as  he  turned  from  time  to 
time  upon  his  uneasy  couch.  In  less  than  half  an  hour, 
however,  the  curtain  again  moved,  and  a  listening  head 
was  advanced  within  it. 

"  The  lamp  has  gone  out,"  said  a  whispering  voice, 
speaking  to  some  one  in  the  outer  chamber,  in  the  low- 
est tone  that  the  human  tongue  can  assume  ;  "  lift  up 
the  curtain  of  the  door,  lest  I  miss  my  blow." 

The  curtain  was  lifted  up,  the  inner  one  pushed  back, 
and  in  streamed  the  pale,  calm  moonlight,  showing 
Bleda,  the  brother  of  Attila,  partly  advanced  within  the 
inner  chamber.  He  took  another  step  forward,  and 
listened,  grasping  tight  the  shining  blade  which  he 
carried  in  his  hand.  Another  step  brought  him  within 
arm's  length  of  the  Roman's  couch,  and  his  hand  was 
raised  to  strike,  when,  bounding  like  a  lion  on  his  pre}^, 
up  started  from  his  master's  feet  Cremera,  the  Arab 
freedman,  and  seized  the  murderer  in  his  gigantic 
grasp. 

An  instant  struggle  took  place  ;  but  the  Hun  was  no 
match  for  his  antagonist,  who  cast  him  down  upon  the 
ground,  shaken,  and  nearly  stunned.  Another  barba- 
rian, however,  rushed  in,  sword  in  hand,  from  the  outer 
tent ;  but  Theodore  was  now  upon  his  feet,  and,  spring- 
ing across  the  prostrate  body  of  Bleda,  interposed  be- 
tween the  armed  Hun  and  his  gallant  freedman.  An- 
other barbarian  appeared  at  the  door  of  the  tent,  and 
how  the  struggle  might  have  gone,  who  shall  say  ?  but 
then  there  came  a  cry  of  Attila  the  King  !  Attila  the 
King  !  and,  with  a  torch  before  him,  the  dark  monarch 
of  the  Huns  advanced  slowly  into  the  tent.  He  gazed 
round  upon  the  faces  of  all  present  with  that  stern, 


136  ATTILA. 

calm,  unmoved  look  which  never  changed  but  in  the 
fury  of  the  battle. 

Bleda,  who  had  risen,  answered  his  brother's  glance 
with  a  look  of  fierce  and  fiery  impatience,  and  planted 
his  foot  upon  his  sword,  which  had  fallen  from  his  hand 
in  the  struggle,  as  if  he  feared  that  some  one  should 
snatch  it  up.  The  companion  who  had  followed  him, 
with  his  naked  blade  still  in  his  hand,  stood  trembhng 
before  the  face  of  Attila  with  a  pale  and  changing  coun- 
tenance. 

To  Bleda  the  great  monarch  said  nothing  ;  but  slowly- 
drawing  his  heavy  sword  from  the  sheath,  he  raised  it 
over  his  head,  and  at  a  single  blow  cleft  through  the 
scull  of  his  brother's  follower,  till  the  trenchant  blade 
stopped  at  his  teeth  and  jaws. 

Bleda  sprang  forward  with  wrath  flaming  from  his 
eyes.  "  How  darest  thou,"  he  cried,  "  slay  my  ser- 
vant ?" 

"  How  darest  thou,"  said  Attila,  in  a  voice  of  thun- 
der, "  lift  thy  hand  against  my  friend  1  Thinkest  thou 
that  Attila  can  be  deceived  I  Thinkest  thou  that  At- 
tila will  not  punish  1  Bleda,  Bleda !  Once,  twice, 
thrice  have  1  warned  thee  !  The  measure  is  full !  See 
that  it  run  not  over.  I  am  neither  blind  to  thine  ambi- 
tion nor  thy  purposes.  Beware  while  it  is  yet  time,  and 
be  yet  my  brother." 

"  Why,  what  have  I  to  fear  from  thee  ?"  demanded 
Bleda,  haughtily ;  "ami  not  a  king  as  thou  art  1  Did  not 
the  same  father  beget  us,  the  same  mother  bear  us  1 
Was  not  the  dominion  left  to  us  equally  divided  ?  What 
art  thou  that  thou  shouldst  judge  me  !  Am  I  not  a  king 
as  thou  art  ?" 

"  Our  portion  was  once  equal,"  answered  Attila;  "but 
though  I  have  not  robbed  thee  of  one  tribe  or  of  one 
charger,  what  are  my  dominions  now  and  thine  1  I 
have  added  nation  unto  nation,  and  kingdom  unto  king- 
dom, while  thou  hast  held  thine  own  only  beneath  the 
protection  of  thy  brother's  shield.  Bleda,  I  have  trod 
upon  the  necks  of  fifteen  kings,  each  greater  than  thou 
art.  Force  me  not  to  tread  upon  thine.  Once  more, 
beware  !  I  tell  thee,  the  cup  is  full !  Thou  knowest 
Attila;  now  get  thee  gone,  and  leave  me." 

Bleda  paused  a  moment,  as  if  he  would  fain  have 
given  voice  to  the  rage  that  swelled  within  his  heart. 
But  there  was  a  strange  and  overwhelming  power  in  liis 


ATTILA.  137 

brother's  presence,  which  even  he,  who  had  struggled 
with  him  from  infancy  up  to  manhood,  could  not  resist. 
He  remained  silent  then,  not  finding  words  to  answer ; 
and  taking  up  his  sword,  he  shook  it  with  a  bent  brow 
at  Cremera,  and  quitted  the  tent. 

"  Take  away  yon  carrion,  and  give  it  to  the  vultures," 
said  Attila,  pointing  to  the  body  of  him  he  had  slain. 
"  Brave  man,"  he  continued,  turning  to  Cremera,  "  well 
hast  thou  done  what  I  gave  thee  in  charge — thou  hast 
saved  thy  master's  life  ;  now  leave  us,  but  wait  with  the 
men  without,  to  whom  I  gave  the  task  of  guarding  him 
from  evil.  Bid  them  be  more  cautious  for  the  future, 
and  tell  them  that  the  presence  of  the  king's  brother — 
nay,  of  his  son  himself — can  never  more  be  an  excuse 
to  Attila  for  failing  in  obedience  unto  him.  For  the 
present,  they  are  pardoned;  get  ye  gone." 

Cremera  retired ;  and  Attila,  motioning  his  own  at- 
tendants to  withdraw,  made  them  drop  the  curtain  of 
the  tent,  and  then  sat  down  upon  the  couch  of  skins. 
Theodore  stood  for  a  moment  by  his  side,  but  the  king 
made  him  be  seated,  calling  him  by  the  gentle  name  of 
my  son. 

"  Thou  art  surprised,"  he  said,  "  to  see  thy  faithful 
freedman  here  among  us  ;  but  when  I  found  thee  first, 
sleeping  in  the  watch-tower  beyond  the  Danube,  he  sat 
between  thee  and  me  with  his  spear  in  his  hand,  gla- 
ring upon  me  as  1  have  seen  in  Eastern  lands  the  lioness 
glare  upon  the  hunters  who  would  take  her  young;  and 
I  said  to  mine  own  heart, '  If  this  youth  should  ever  want 
a  faithful  guard,  here  is  one  who  would  spill  his  own 
heart's  blood  rather  than  a  drop  of  his  lord's  should 
flow.'  When  I  followed  thee  from  Margus,  too,  I  found 
him,  almost  alone,  struggling  with  some  of  my  warriors 
who  had  gone  on  before,  in  defence  of  the  women,  for 
whom,  as  well  as  for  thyself,  I  had  promised  thine  uncle 
my  protection.  He  would  not  yield  till  a  heavy  blow 
on  the  head  had  stunned  him  ;  but  I  gave  him  in  charge 
to  those  who  are  skilled  in  the  secret  virtue  of  herbs 
and  flowers,  with  commands  to  bring  him  after  me,  and 
to  cure  him.  They  promised  me  he  should  soon  be 
well ;  and  when  1  heard  of  thy  danger,  and  that  he  had 
recovered,  I  sent  him  hither  to  guard  thee,  till  I  could 
come  myself,  not  choosing  to  oppose  any  of  my  own 
nation  to  the  hand  of  my  brother ;  and  I  knew  that  that 

M2 


138  ATTILA. 

brother  would  do  the  deed  he  meditated  with  his  own 
arm." 

"  Then  I  have  once  more  to  thank  thee,  mighty 
Attila,  for  hfe,"  said  Theodore  ;  "  to  thank  thee,  the 
enemy  of  my  native  land,  the  destroyer  of  my  country- 
men." 

"  Not  so,"  replied  the  monarch  :  "  I  have  once  saved 
thy  hfe,  I  grant,  when  thou  wert  in  the  power  of  Ar- 
daric  ;  but  for  tlie  deed  of  to-night  thou  ou^est  me  noth- 
ing. I  promised  thee  protection,  and  had  I  not  given 
it  when  I  could,  I  should  have  been  myself  thy  mur- 
derer. But  to-morrow  thou  seekest  to  depart  and  leave 
me.     Is  it  not  so  '?" 

"  It  is,"  answered  Theodore ;  "  not  that  I  am  un- 
grateful for  thy  favours,  oh  king !  nor  insensible  to  the 
distinction  which  thou  makest  between  me  and  others 
of  my  race ;  but  the  scenes  I  have  beheld,  the  grief 
and  bitterness  of  heart  that  I  have  endured  since  the 
morning  sun  of  yesterday,  would  soon  terminate  my 
existence  were  they  often  to  be  renewed.  Did  your 
nation  wage  warfare  like  a  civilized  people,  I  might  en- 
dure, though  I  might  grieve  ;  but  now  the  sight  of  utter 
extermination  and  devastation  which  thy  tribes  inflict 
wherever  they  pass,  is  death,  is  worse  than  death  to  me 
likewise." 

Attila  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  ground,  and  remained 
for  a  moment  silent : — "  I  will  reason  with  thee,  my 
son,"  he  said  at  length ;  "  for,  though  I  disdain  the  art 
of  the  idle  and  subtle  fools,  who  wrangle,  as  I  hear,  for 
an  empty  word  in  the  schools  of  thy  capital,  yet  Attila 
is  not  without  reasons  for  anything  he  does,  and,  when 
needful,  can  give  those  reasons,  if  it  so  please  him. 
Thou  talkest  of  the  hostilities  of  civilized  nations,  and 
speakest  with  anger  and  fear  of  our  more  just  and  rea- 
sonable dealings  in  our  warfare.     But  we  make  war 
upon  our  enemies,  not  upon  our  friends.     We  either  go 
to  subdue  and  bring  under  our  dominion  other  nations, 
or  to  avenge  ourselves  upon  a  foreign  foe.     If  the  first 
be  our  object,  and  resistance  is  offered  to  us,  how  foolish 
to  leave  our  enemies  the  means  of  resisting  us  with 
success  ?  how  weak  to  spare  men  who  have  done  all 
they  could  to  slay  us,  or  women  and  children,  by  which 
the  race  of  our  adversaries   may  be  kept  up  and  in- 
creased 1     No  ;  it  behooves  us  to  smite  with  the  arrow 
and  the  sword,  so  long  as  there  is  any  power  of  resist- 


ATTILA.  139 

ance  in  the  land,  and  never  sheath  the  blade  or  un- 
string the   bow  till  we  are  undisputed  masters  of  the 
whole  race  and  region.     Then,  again,  if  we  go  for  ven- 
geance, what  vengeance  do  we  gain  by  suffering  our 
own  warriors  to  be  slain  without  slaying  our  enemies. 
The  more  that  die,  the  more  is  vengeance  satisfied  ;  and 
if  we  purchase  it  with  our  own  blood,  we  must  drink 
the  blood  of  our  enemies.     What  you  call  civihzed  war- 
fare is  a  mere  folly,  which  protracts  the  attainment  of 
the  end  it  seeks,  and  often  loses  it  altogether — which, 
instead  of  blazing  like   a  bright  fire,  and  consuming 
rapidly  a  small  quantity  of  fuel,  lingers  long,  and  burns 
a  thousand-fold  as  much.     No,  no,  my  son,  the  most 
merciful  warfare  is  that  which  is  the  shortest ;  and  that 
in  which  no  compassion  is  shown  or  asked,  is  always 
sure  to  be  the  soonest  over.     Nevertheless,"  continued 
Attila,  "  I  seek  not  to  make  thee  behold  the  ruin  of 
thy  native  land,  though,  methinks,  the  destruction  of 
thy  father's  murderer  might  well  repay  the  sight:  but 
thou  shalt  go  hence.     The  men  I  have  chosen  to  ac- 
company thee  are  under  thy  command,  and  thou  shalt 
have  cattle,   and  woods,  and  pasturage  assigned  thee 
from  my  own  herds  and  lands  ;  ay,  even  gold  shalt  thou 
have,  and,  what  is  better,  security  and  peace  ;  for  who- 
soever lifts  his  hand  against  thee  shall  have  Attila  for 
his  foe  ;  and  now  fare  thee  well,  till  we  meet  again  on 
my  return." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE  COUNTRY   OF  THE  HUNS. 

Theodore  was  left  alone  once  more,  and  weariness 
was  more  than  ever  upon  him ;  but  yet  the  busy,  unti- 
ring course  of  thought  went  on  for  long  after  he  had 
again  lain  down  to  rest.  Thought's  insidious  enemy, 
sleep,  at  length  crept  upon  him  ;  but,  ere  calm  forget- 
fulness  had  complete  dominion,  Cremera  once  more 
stole  into  the  tent,  and  again  lay  down  at  his  feet.  The 
lamp,  however,  had  been  lighted  by  the  followers  of  the 
monarch ;  and  Theodore,  recognising  the  form  of  his 


140  ATTILA. 

faithful  attendant,  merely  spoke  a  few  words  of  thanks 
and  greeting,  and  let  his  heavy  eyelids  fall. 

Broad  daylight  was  shining  through  the  chinks  of  the 
tent  when  he  awoke  ;  and  ('remera  was  sitting  in  the 
outer  chamber,  polishing  with  a  knife  a  strong  ashen 
staff,  to  which  he  had  fitted  the  iron  head  of  a  spear. 
Theodore  saw  that  the  day  must  be  far  advanced,  and 
rising,  he  offered  prayers  and  thanks  to  God ;  and  then, 
while  speaking  many  kindly  words  to  the  freedman,  he 
advanced  and  pushed  back  the  loose  hangings  that 
closed  the  interior  of  the  tent  from  the  view  of  the 
outer  world. 

How  changed  was  the  scene  which  met  his  eye 
from  that  which  he  had  passed  through  on  the  prece- 
ding night !  The  Huns  were  gone  ;  scarcely  a  vestige 
of  them  remained ;  not  a  wagon,  not  a  group  was  to  be 
seen  over  all  that  wide  plain,  except  where,  before  the 
door  of  the  tent,  ten  or  twelve  of  the  Huns,  and  an 
equal  number  of  the  Alani,  taller,  stronger,  and  fairer 
to  look  upon  than  their  dark  companions,  employed  the 
vacant  hours  in  packing  a  number  of  small  and  strange- 
ly-assorted articles  into  two  of  the  low  wagons  which 
had  formed  part  of  the  night's  circle  round  the  tent. 
The  sun  was  not  very  far  from  its  meridian,  and  Theo- 
dore saw  that  he  must  have  slept  long  and  profoundly, 
but  yet  he  was  not  refreshed.  There  was  a  weariness, 
a  heaviness  upon  his  limbs  that  he  had  never  felt  be- 
fore— a  burning  heat  upon  his  skin,  that  the  cooler  cli- 
mate in  which  he  now  was  placed  could  not  have  pro- 
duced. 

Nevertheless,  he  gladly  prepared  to  depart,  and  bade 
the  attendants  who  had  been  assigned  to  him  make 
all  things  ready,  while  he  went  to  bathe  his  feverish 
body  in  a  small  stream  that  his  eye  caught  glistening 
on  at  a  short  distance  upon  its  way  to  join  the  rushing 
waters  of  the  Danube.  The  cool  wave,  however, 
proved  no  refreshment,  and  only  caused  a  chilly  shud- 
der to  pass  over  his  limbs,  succeeded  quickly  by  the 
same  heat  as  before.  On  his  return  he  found  food 
prepared,  but  he  could  not  eat;  and  though  his  lip 
loathed  the  wine  they  offered,  he  drank  a  deep  draught 
from  the  horn  of  a  urns,  for  the  sake  of  gaining  that 
temporary  strength  of  which  he  felt  himself  to  stand  in 
need. 

His  own  horse,  fresh  as  the  early  morning  from  a 


ATTILA.  141 

night  of  repose,  stood  near,  but  the  horses  of  the  bar- 
barians were  still  straying  over  the  plain.  A  shrill, 
long  whistle,  however,  brought  them  in  a  moment  to 
their  masters'  sides,  and  small  grooming  did  the  rude 
riders  of  the  Dacian  wilds  bestow  upon  their  swift  but 
rugged  beasts.  The  tent  was  by  this  time  struck  and 
placed  upon  the  wagons ;  and  Theodore,  with  one  of 
the  Huns  beside  him  to  guide  him  as  he  went,  led  the 
way  onward  towards  that  strange  land  which  seemed 
thenceforward  destined  to  be  his  home  for  many  a  long 
year.  Of  his  guide  he  asked  various  questions,  and 
was  answered  fluently  in  his  own  language;  but  at 
length  Cremera,  who  followed,  pointed  towards  the 
towers  of  a  far  distant  city,  saying,  "  Is  not  that  Mar- 
gus  V 

"  It  is,"  answered  the  Hun.  "  We  can  go  thither  if 
thou  wilt,"  he  continued,  addressing  Theodore.  "  We 
can  repose  there  to-morrow  night.  It  is  now  a  city 
belonging  to  Attila  the  King." 

"  No,  no,"  replied  Theodore,  with  many  a  painful 
feeling  at  the  very  thought  finding  expression  on  his 
countenance — "  no,  no,  not  in  the  city  for  a  thousand 
worlds ;  rather  let  us  lodge  in  the  open  field." 

"  Thou  art  wise,  young  chief,"  replied  the  Hun. 
*'  Cities  are  hateful  places :  Attila  loves  them  not  any 
more  than  thou  dost ;  and,  though  Margus  is  his,  he 
will  not  keep  it  long,  but  will  either  sell  it  back  to  the 
Romans  or  destroy  it." 

Theodore  replied  not ;  aiid  they  rode  on  till  at  length, 
towards  eventide,  they  came  near  the  banks  of  the  Dan- 
ube, and,  after  half  an  hour's  riding  within  sight  of  the 
river,  halted  for  the  night  on  a  spot  near  the  old  Roman 
way  from  Mcesia  into  Dacia.  Theodore  was  fatigued, 
but  yet  he  could  not  rest ;  and  while  they  were  engaged 
in  setting  up  his  tent,  he  wandered  forward  to  drink  of 
the  great  river. 

It  was  a  sweet,  bright,  tranquil  afternoon.  The  sun 
was  just  dipping  beneath  the  wood-covered  hills  upon 
the  opposite  bank  of  the  river,  but  the  air  was  still  full 
of  his  light ;  and  the  forests  and  mountains,  the  soft 
green  slopes,  the  blue  sky,  and  the  light  passing  cloud, 
were  mirrored  in  the  swift  waters  of  the  mighty  stream, 
as  it  flowed  on  towards  the  ocean.  The  air,  too,  was 
calm ;  and  silence  hung  above  the  world,  except  when 
the  laughing  note  of  the  woodpecker,  or  the  melody  of 


142  ATTILA. 

the  thrush,  broke  the  silence  for  a  moment,  to  render  it 
more  calm  and  sweet,  Theodore  gazed  up  the  stream, 
and  beheld  afar  gigantic  masses  of  masonry,  rifted  and 
broken,  projecting  from  either  bank,  while  here  and 
there,  from  the  broad  sealike  bosom  of  the  Danube, 
rose  up  massy  piers  and  woodwork,  the  fragments  of 
some  vast  fabric  swept  away. 

It  was  evidently  the  famous  bridge  of  Trajan  that 
stood  before  him,  just  as  tlie  destroying  hand  of  his 
envious  successor  had  left  it ;  and  as  Theodore  gazed 
upon  the  remnants  of  that  stupendous  work,  as  they 
stood  in  the  clear  light  and  shade  of  evening,  he  could 
not  but  meditate  upon  the  change  of  dynasties,  the 
vanity  of  human  hopes,  the  fruitlessness  of  earthly  en- 
deavours, and  all  the  many  and  melancholy  themes  on 
which  poet  and  philosopher  have  sung  and  moralized, 
hoping,  even  while  they  did  so,  for  that  earthly  immor- 
tality which  they  knew  and  proved  to  be  a  bubble. 
There  before  his  eyes  stood  one  of  the  greatest  works 
of  one  of  the  greatest  men  that  the  human  race,  in  all 
its  vast  succession  of  beings,  in  all  its  complexity  oi 
characters,  in  all  its  variety  of  qualities,  has  ever  pro- 
duced, from  the  creation  till  to-day ;  and  yet  a  mean 
follower,  unable  to  compete  with  him  in  intellect,  in 
feeling,  in  effort,  or  in  success,  had  possessed  the 
power  to  sweep  away  from  off  the  earth  that  majestic 
monument  of  a  grand  and  creative  mind,  to  cast  down 
what  the  good  and  wise  had  raised  up,  to  destroy  what 
the  noble  and  energetic  had  created, 

"  Oh,  wonderful  frailty  of  man's  most  lasting  works !" 
thought  the  young  Roman;  "that  nothing  can  give 
them  certain  existence,  no,  not  for  a  century.  That 
which  the  earthquake  spares,  the  hand  of  war  and  vio- 
lence pulls  down ;  that  which  hostile  armies  have  re- 
spected, the  mean  envy  of  inferior  genius  will  destroy. 
Alas !  when  we  look  around,  and  think  of  the  work  of 
but  a  few  short  lustres  upon  man's  noblest  efforts  and 
his  brightest  productions,  well,  well  may  we  ask,  What 
is  lasting  upon  earth]" 

He  paused — "Yes,  yes!"  he  thought  again;  "virtue 
is  lasting  !  virtue  is  immortal  even  here !  Rarely  as  it 
is  seen,  often  as  it  is  counterfeited,  shunning  publicity, 
hating  pomp,  virtue,  indestructible  like  gold,  even  in 
the  fire  of  time  and  amid  the  trial  of  circumstances, 
comes  out  pure  and  passes  on  uninjured,  accumulating, 


t 


ATTILA.  143 

slowly,  but  brightly,  in  the  treasuries  of  the  past,  and 
forming  an  inexhaustible  store  of  example  and  encour- 
agement for  all  who  choose  to  take  it.  Yes,  yes,  virtue 
is  lasting!  One  may  produce,  and  another  may  de- 
stroy ;  but  Trajan  shall  be  remembered  when  Hadrian 
is  forgotten  or  contemned." 

Theodore,  as  the  confidence  in  some  great  principle 
of  stability  returned  to  his  heart,  set  his  foot  more 
firmly  upon  the  earth,  which,  to  his  imagination,  had 
seemed  crumbling  beneath  him  like  a  pile  of  dust  and 
ashes,  while  he  had  only  remembered  how  brief,  how 
transitory  is  the  existence  of  the  noblest  fabrics  thac 
it  bears. 

He  would  fain  have  gone  on  to  examine  more  nearly 
the  mighty  fragments  of  what  had  once  been  the  cele- 
brated bridge  of  Trajan  ;  but  the  ruins  were  farther  than 
they  seemed :  he  was  weary  and  languid ;  and  ever 
and  anon  urged  by  the  burning  thirst  upon  him,  he 
paused  to  drink  again  of  the  waters  of  the  Danube. 
At  length  he  gave  up  his  purpose  and  returned  to  the 
tent,  where  the  Huns  were  broiling,  on  a  wood  fire,  a 
large  fish  which  they  had  caught  in  the  neighbouring 
river.  At  the  very  sight  of  food  a  sickening  disgust 
came  over  the  young  Roman ;  but  his  faithful  Cremera 
pressed  him  so  anxiously  to  eat,  that  he  forced  himself 
to  swallow  a  few  mouthfuls.  But  it  was  in  vain :  he 
could  not  go  on ;  and  soon  retiring  to  his  tent,  he  en- 
deavoured to  find  repose. 

No  sounds  disturbed  his  rest,  for  nothing  was  to  be 
heard  but  the  rushing  of  the  Danube  and  the  sighing 
of  the  wind  through  the  tall  trees.  No  human  being 
had  been  seen  through  all  that  morning's  journey ;  no 
voice  of  salutation  had  welcomed  them  as  they  passed, 
showing  too  well  how  desolate  the  land  had  been, 
made ;  and  after  the  youth's  attendants  had  laid  them- 
selves down  to  sleep,  not  a  tone  but  one  solitary  scream 
from  some  flitting  bird  of  night  broke  the  silence  of  the 
world  around :  and  yet  Theodore  courted  slumber  in 
vain.  He  tossed  his  weary  limbs  upon  the  couch  of 
skins  which  had  again  become  his  bed,  and  counted  the 
heavy  minutes  from  night  till  morning.  Frequently, 
through  all  the  violent  heat  that  burned  in  his  whole 
frame,  a  cold  chilly  shudder  would  pass  over  him,  and 
he  felt  that  the  hand  of  sickness  was  upon  him. 

Nevertheless,  he  started  up  with  the  dawn,  bent  with 


144  ATTILA. 

feverish  eagerness  upon  pursuing  his  jouniey  as  quickly 
as  possible,  while  yet  the  last  efforts  of  his  remaining 
strength  could  be  exerted  to  oppose  the  overpowering 
weight  that  pressed  him  down.  Looking  out  from  the 
tent,  he  saw  the  Huns  and  the  Alani  already  busy  in 
preparing  for  departure ;  and,  in  a  few  minutes,  one 
who  seemed  to  have  been  despatched  to  seek  for  a 
means  of  transport  came  back  to  say  that  the  raft  had 
already  come  down  to  the  shore.  Cremera  gazed  anx- 
iously on  the  changed  and  ashy  countenance  of  his 
lord ;  but  he  spoke  not,  and  led  the  war-horse,  who 
knew  his  hand  better  than  that  of  any  of  the  Huns, 
down  to  the  bank  of  the  river.  A  raft,  such  as  had 
borne  Theodore  across  once  before,  was  waiting  with 
some  of  the  rude  boatmen  of  the  Danube^  and  in  two 
voyages  the  whole  party  which  accompanied  the  young 
Roman  was  borne  across  and  landed  on  the  other  side 
of  the  river. 

Dacia  was  now  before  his  steps ;  and  although  he 
could  not  but  feel  a  chilly  coldness  at  the  thought  that 
he  had  passed,  perhaps  for  ever,  the  boundary  of  his 
native  land  ;  had  left  behind  him,  for  an  unlimited  space 
of  years,  all  those  scenes  and  objects  linked  to  the 
brightest  memories  of  his  heart ;  had  entered  upon  a 
course  where  all  was  new  and  strange,  where  much 
was  dark  and  doubtful,  and  much  distinctly  painful; 
and  that  he  had  nothing  in  prospect,  at  the  very  best, 
but  a  long,  dull  lapse  of  years,  among  nations  inferior 
to  his  own  in  every  point  of  intellect  and  every  art  of 
social  life  ;  yet  there  was  a  feeling  of  joy  broke  across 
the  gloom  of  such  anticipations  when  he  remembered 
the  sights  of  horror  v/hich  he  had  just  beheld  on  the 
Roman  frontier,  and  felt  that  he  would  be  called  to 
mingle  in  such  scenes  no  more.  The  very  feeling^gave 
him  new  energy;  the  morning  air  seemed  to  revive 
him ;  and  he  spurred  on  with  the  rest  through  the  wide 
forest  that  lay  before  their  steps,  and  across  which  a 
grass-grown  track  afforded  them  a  way  into  the  interior 
of  the  country. 

In  less  than  three  hours,  at  the  rapid  rate  at  which 
they  travelled,  they  had  crossed  the  belt  of  w^ood  which 
for  a  considerable  way  bordered  the  Danube.  Beyond 
that  belt  stretched  out  a  plain,  which  would  have 
seemed  interminable  had  not  the  blue  lines  of  some, 
distant  mountains,  rising  up  against  the  far  horizony 


ATTILA.  145 

marked  its  boundary.  Except  where,  here  and  there, 
was  seen  a  line  of  forest  ground,  looking  like  a  group 
of  bushes  in  the  vast  extent  over  which  the  eye  could 
stretch,  the  whole  plain  seemed  covered  with  long  green 
grass,  waving  like  a  mighty  lake  as  a  light  wind  bent  it 
to  and  fro  in  the  morning  sunshine. 

There  was  something  grand  and  expansive  in  the 
view,  notwithstanding  its  vast  monotony  ;  and  as  Theo- 
dore paused  for  a  moment,  and  let  his  horse  breathe 
upon  the  edge  of  the  slight  slope  on  which  the  forest 
ended,  he  gazed  with  some  feelings  of  surprise  and  ad- 
miration upon  the  new  world  which  was  henceforth  to 
be  his  habitation.  That  feeling  again  refreshed  him ; 
but  much  need  had  he  indeed  of  refreshment,  and  of 
anything  which  could  give  even  a  momentaiy  support 
to  that  strength  which  was  failing  fast  under  the  pres- 
sure of  fatigue  and  illness, 

"  Let  your  horse  pause  for  a  moment  and  eat,"  said 
the  Hun  who  rode  by  his  side.  "  We  are  a  long  way 
from  a  resting-place:  under  those  woods' is  our  first 
village." 

Theodore  did  as  the  other  advised,  ,but  his  heart 
grew  faint  at  such  a  notification  of  rthe  length  of  way  ; 
for  though  he  would  not  pause  nor  yield  so  long  as 
any  powers  of  life  were  left,  yet  he  felt  that  the  powers 
of  life  were  waning,  and  that,  if  he  reached  not  soon 
some  place  where  he  could  obtain  refreshment  and  re- 
pose, he  should  never  reach  it  at  all,  but  sink  of  unwont- 
ed weariness  by  the  way. 

In  a  fe^y  minutes  they  again  began  their  journey 
through  the  plain,  riding  up  to  their  horses'  chests  in 
the  long  rich  grass,  which,  though  it  proved  no  obstacle 
to  the  small,  quick  horses  of  the  Huns,  impeded  and  ir- 
ritated at  every  step  the  fiery  charger  which  had  car- 
ried the  young  Roman:  In  the  meanwhile  the  summer 
sun  got  high,  and  poured  its  burning  rays  upon  Theo- 
dore's unsheltered  head ;  a  white,  filmy,  and  oppressive 
mist  rose  up  from  the  moist  plain,  not  thick  enough  to 
impede  the  sight,  but  tinging  every  object  with  a  pecu- 
liar hue.  For  a  long  time  nothing  diversified  the  scene, 
nothing  interrupted  the^  monotony  of  their  progress; 
but  at  length  an  immense  bird  sprang  up  almost  from 
under  their  horses'  feet,  and  spreading  its  wings,  with- 
out rising  from  the  ground,  ran  on  with  extraordinary 
speed  before  them. 

Vol.  I.— N 


146  ATTILA. 

"An  ostrich:  an  ostrich!"  cried  Cremera,  forgetting 
the  distance  between  the  spot  where  he  then  stood  and 
his  own  porphyry  mountains — "an  ostrich!  a  young 
ostrich !" 

But  the  Hun  who  was  by  his  side  paused  for  a  mo- 
ment without  speaking,  poised  the  javelin  he  carried  in 
his  liand,  and  launched  it  with  a  strong  arm  in  the  air. 
Falhng  with  unerring  aim,  it  struck  the  great  bustard 
between  the  wings ;  and,  riding  on,  the  Hun  took  it  up 
and  slung  it  over  his  shoulders,  saying,  "  This  will  se- 
cure our  evening  meal." 

Still  they  rode  on,  and  more  and  more  terrible  grew 
the  lassitude  of  the  Roman  youth ;  the  heat  was  over- 
powering ;  the  way  seemed  interminable,  and  that  dis- 
tant line  of  wood  towards  which  their  steps  were  bent, 
though  appearing  certainly  to  grow  larger,  yet  was  ap- 
proached so  slowly  that  Theodore,  as  he  gazed  upon  it, 
felt  his  heart  grow  faint  with  the  despair  of  ever  arri- 
ving at  the  calm  shelter  which  he  vainly  hoped  there  to 
find.  With  his  lip  parched,  with  his  eye  glazed,  with 
his  cheek  pale  yet  burning,  and  with  his  hands  scarcely- 
able  to  hold  the  reins,  still  he  rode  on,  looking  forward 
with  an  anxious,  straining  gaze  upon  those  woods, 
thinking  they  never  would  be  reached.  Wider  and 
wider  they  stretched  out  before  him.  The  plain  on 
which  he  had  seen  them  stand  alone,  like  a  group  of 
bushes,  when  he  had  gazed  on  them  from  the  distant 
heights,  now  seemed  bounded  by  them  entirely  on  that 
side.  As  he  came  nearer  he  could  distinguish  the  vast 
rolling  masses  of  forest,  the  dark,  deep  brakes  where 
glades  or  savannas  intervened ;  and  at  length,  while 
with  his  dim  and  dizzy  sight  he  scanned  eagerly  the 
scene  before  him,  he  thought  he  could  perceive  some 
low,  wooden  cottages,  crouching,  as  if  for  shelter,  be- 
neath the  wide-extended  arms  of  the  tall  trees  upon  the 
edge.  That  sight  again  gave  him  a  momentary  im- 
pulse ;  he  urged  his  horse  on ;  he  saw  the  cottages 
more  distinctly ;  but,  as  with  that  last  effort  he  at- 
tempted to  reach  them,  strength,  and  hope,  and  thought 
all  gave  way  at  once,  and,  with  just  the  consciousness 
of  utter  exhaustion,  he  fell  fainting  from  his  horse. 

A  lapse  of  time  succeeded,  over  which  Theodore's 
memory  had  no  power.  He  had  talked,  he  had  suffered, 
he  had  raved,  he  had  struggled  during  the  interval ;  he 
had  named  names  which  those  around  him  did  not 


ATTILA.  147 

know;  he  had  spoken  a  thousand  things  which  they 
could  not  comprehend,  while  for  fourteen  days  he  had 
lain  tossed  between  life  and  death,  and  tended  by  the 
hands  of  strangers.  But  of  all  that  he  had  no  recollec- 
tion when  at  length  reasoning  consciousness  had  re- 
turned. 

It  was  the  evening  of  a  sweet  summer's  day,  when, 
opening  his  eyes,  he  looked  around  and  wondered 
where  he  was.  There  was  a  small  chamber,  lined  with 
smooth  and  fragrant  pine  wood,  from  the  cracks  and 
crevices  of  which  the  fresh  resin  was  yet  oozing.  On 
the  walls  hung,  in  fantastic  garlands,  many  a  barbarian 
instrument  of  war,  spears  and  swords,  the  quiver  of  ar- 
rows and  the  unstrung  bow,  the  buckler,  the  club,  and 
the  far-slaying  sling.  There,  too,  beneath,  on  stands 
and  tables  of  wood,  might  be  seen  a  number  of  strange 
idols,  wild,  unseemly  shapes,  such  as  a  child  might 
carve  for  sport  out  of  a  block  of  wood.  Settles  and 
tables  were  there  also,  of  the  same  plain  material,  but 
on  some  of  them  appeared  objects  of  a  more  valuable 
kind  and  a  richer  workmanship.  There  lay,  even  in 
abundance,  gems  and  gold,  bearing  evident  marks  of 
cultivated  taste  and  skilful  art ;  but  there  were  two 
things  more  sweet  than  any  other  could  have  been  to 
Theodore's  senses  at  that  moment,  which  called  all  at- 
tention from  every  other  object. 

The  first  was  the  calm,  sweet  breath  of  the  summer 
evening,  borne  light  and  fragrant  through  the  open  win- 
dow ;  the  other  was  the  sweet,  melodious  voice  of  a 
woman  singing. 

He  turned  his  eyes  to  where  the  singer  sat  beside  the 
bed  on  which  he  was  stretched,  and  saw  a  girl  of  some 
seventeen  years  of  age,  with  bright  brown  hair,  worn 
not  as  Roman  women  wore  it,  but  parted  on  the  fair 
forehead,  and  thrust  in  clustering  ringlets  behind  her 
ears.  The  face  was  very  sweet  and  beautiful,  and 
everything  would  have  been  soft — perhaps  too  soft  for 
great  interest — had  it  not  been  for  the  deep,  devoted 
blue  eyes.  They  were  somewhat  darker  in  hue  than 
the  sky  by  day ;  but  yet,  as  they  gazed  forth  from  the 
long  dark  lashes,  they  looked  like  that  same  azure 
heaven  at  the  moment  when  its  colour  is  most  deep,  yet 
most  pure,  just  ere  the  curtain  of  the  night  falls  over  its 
expanse.  She  saw  the  youth  turn  his  eyes  upon  her ; 
but,  thinking  only  that  sleep  had  fled  again  from  his  still 


148  ATTILA. 

fevered  brain,  she  recommenced  the  song  she  had  been 
singing,  while  lier  small  white  hands  continued  to  ply 
the  light  labour  of  the  distaff.  Theodore,  however, 
could  now  hear  and  understand ;  and  he  listened  with 
delight  that  cannot  be  told,  while,  in  the  Alan  tongue, 
the  language  of  his  own  dear  mother,  she  sang,  with  a 
sweet,  soft,  rounded  voice — 

THE  SONG  OF  SLEEP. 

"  Come,  gentle  sleep,  to  the  couch  of  the  stranger, 
From  thought's  weary  burden,  oh  give  him  relief ! 
Take  mem'ries  of  anguish  and  prospects  of  danger, 
The  future's  dull  care  and  the  past's  heavy  grief. 

"  Sweet  friend  of  our  childhood,  thou  strewest  with  flowers 
The  pillow  where  infancy  rests  her  calm  head. 
When  weary  with  sporting  through  long  happy  hours, 
With  thee  for  her  angel,  she  seeks  the  soft  bed. 

"  Coy  visitant,  come  !     We  prize  thee  more  highly, 

In  years  more  mature  when  we've  tried  the  world's  truth ; 
Why  com'st  thou  so  rarely '?  why  fly'st  thou  so  shyly  ? 
Oh  what  thus  estranges  the  friend  of  our  youth  .' 

'  We've  been  false  to  thy  friendship,  despised  thy  caresses; 

For  pleasures  we've  left  thee,  and  even  for  cares  ; 
The  faithful,  the  tranquil,  the  humble,  sleep  blesses, 
But  flies  from  the  couch  that  one  wild  passion  shares. 

"Yet,  balm-giver,  yet,  for  the  sick  and  the  weary, 
Thy  merciful  gifts  we  implore  as  a  boon ; 
Oh  give  us  thine  aid,  on  our  way  long  and  dreary — 
Aid,  tardily  valued,  and  lost  all  too  soon  !" 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

NEVA. 

It  is  a  strange  and  awful  sensation,  when,  after  hav- 
ing enjoyed  to  the  full  the  powers  and  energies  of  man- 
hood, we  find  ourselves  suddenly  reduced  by  the  un- 
nerving hand  of  sickness  to  the  feebleness  of  infancy : 
when  giant  strength  lies  prostrate  and  busy  activity  is 
chained  to  the  weary  bed.  It  is  strange  and  it  is  awful, 
for  it  shows  us  most  sensibly  how  frail  a  tiling  is  that 


ATTILA.  149 

vigour  which,  in  our  boisterous  days  of  health,  we  madly 
think  an  adamantine  armour  against  all  adversity.  It 
is  strange  and  awful,  for  it  leads  us  to  the  brink  of  that 
fatal  precipice  over  which  all  must  fall,  and  displays,  as 
if  from  the  very  verge,  the  inside  of  our  future  grave. 

From  a  stupor,  in  which  all  memory  and  every  pow- 
er of  thought  had  been  at  an  end,  Theodore  woke  as 
feeble  and  incapable  as  when,  in  the  nurse's  arms,  he 
moved  his  mother's  heart  by  his  first  infant  cry.  The 
same  feelings  of  tenderness ;  the  same  mingled  emo- 
tions, where  pity,  and  hope,  and  the  pleasure  of  protect- 
ing, all  unite  ;  the  same  sensations  of  affectionate  inter- 
est for  the  thing  we  rear,  and  guard,  and  watch  for,  as 
those  which  fill  the  breast  of  a  mother  towards  her  child, 
affected,  though  in  a  less  degree,  those  who  attended 
the  couch  of  the  young  Roman  during  his  illness  and 
convalescence.  It  was  but  slowly  he  recovered  :  for 
the  fever  which  had  seized  upon  him  had  been  fierce 
and  powerful ;  and  it  had  been  only  unfaded  youth's  te- 
nacity of  life  and  the  natural  vigour  of  his  frame  which 
had  finally  conquered  that  terrible  assailant. 

The  persons  who  attended  him  were  entirely  women, 
except  when  his  faithful  Cremera  took  his  daily  turn  to 
watch  by  his  bedside ;  and  though  an  elder  and  more 
matronly  dame  came  in  and  out,  and  frequently  remained 
in  his  chamber  for  an  hour  or  more,  still  his  principal 
attendant  was  the  lovely  girl  whom  he  at  first  had  seen, 
or  a  maiden  who  seemed  to  be  her  sister,  still  younger 
than  herself. 

Often  would  he  keep  his  eyes  closed,  to  listen,  uninter- 
rupted, to  the  sweet  singing  of  the  barbarian  girl ;  often 
when  he  woke  would  he  find  that  graceful  form  bending 
over  him,  and  those  deep,  intense  blue  eyes  gazing  upon 
his  countenance,  as  if  to  mark  the  outposts  of  victorious 
health,  spreading  life's  rosy  banner  where  the  pale  flag 
of  sickness  had  been  advanced  so  lately.  As  he  recov- 
ered strength  also,  and  his  tongue  became  more  capable 
of  its  office,  he  would  converse  with  her  from  time  to 
time  in  the  language  which  she  had  used  in  singing  : 
and  though  she  spoke  it  not  as  her  native  dialect,  yet 
they  could  thus  converse  fluently. 

With  the  matron  it  was  different :  she  was  kind,  but 
not  conversable  ;  yet,  when  she  did  speak,  it  was  always 
in  the  pure  Alan  tongue;  and  Theodore  could  almost 
have  fancied  that  he  heard  once  more  the  voice  of  his 

N2 


150  ATTILA. 

mother.  Under  kind  care  and  skilful  management  he 
at  length  reached  that  point  where  his  recovery  became 
certain ;  and  from  that  moment  his  convalescence  pro- 
ceeded rapidly.  He  was  soon  able  to  quit  his  chamber ; 
and  going  forth,  though  with  wavering  and  unsteady  steps, 
he  walked  along,  enjoying  the  fresh  air  of  the  morning, 
beneath  the  rude  portico  of  unshaped  stems  of  trees 
which  shaded  one  side  of  that  long  low^  dwelling,  while 
his  heart  was  raised  with  fresh  gratitude  to  Heaven  at 
every  sweet  sound  and  sight  that  he  was  permitted 
again  to  enjoy.  There  had  been  a  time,  not  very  long 
before,  when  hfe  had  seemed  to  him  a  weary  burden, 
whicli  he  desired  not  to  retain ;  the  earth  a  dreary  and  a 
desert  dwelling-place,  in  which  he  was  but  little  anxious 
to  remain.  But  such  feelings  had  only  existed  while 
the  body  remained  in  strength  and  vigour,  oppressed 
and  impatient  under  a  mind  overcharged  with  sorrows, 
anxieties,  and  cares.  Now,  however,  the  corporeal 
frame  had  been  weakened  and  cast  down ;  the  body  as 
well  as  the  mind  had  been  humbled  and  chastised ;  the 
blessings  of  life  were  more  valued,  the  past  could  be  re- 
garded with  resignation,  and  the  future  looked  forward 
to  with  hope. 

As  he  walked  forth  one  day  vmder  the  shadow  of  that 
portico,  his  eye  wandered  over  the  whole  plain,  on 
which,  at  a  little  distance,  appeared  some  horsemen, 
whom  he  afterward  found  to  be  those  who  had  attend- 
ed him  thither.  In  the  shade,  however,  were  collected 
a  number  of  women,  comprising  all  those  whom  he  had 
hitherto  seen  ;  and  Neva,  the  blue-eyed  daughter  of  the 
house,  smiled  gayly  to  see  his  wavering  steps.  The 
next  moment  she  greeted  him  with,  "  Come,  sit  you 
with  the  women  till  you  have  strength  enougli  to  join 
the  men;"  and  she  made  room  for  him  on  the  bench  on 
which  she  sat  between  herself  and  her  mother. 

All  were  employed  in  some  domestic  occupation ;  and 
the  distaff,  and  the  spindle,  and  the  wheel  went  on, 
while  Theodore,  sitting  beside  them,  began  to  ask  the 
first  questions  which  he  had  hitherto  ventured,  regard- 
ing the  place  and  the  family  in  which  he  then  was.  He 
found  that  the  village  which  he  saw  stretching  along 
under  the  forest  contained  not  less  than  two  or  three 
hundred  wooden  cottages ;  and  his  eye  at  once  showed 
him  that  the  one  in  which  he  had  found  shelter  and  re- 
ceived so  much  true  kindness  was  by  far  the  most  ex- 


ATTILA.  151 

tensive  and  most  ornamented  of  the  whole.  When  he 
came  to  ask,  however,  whose  was  the  house  in  which 
he  dwelt,  and  whose  the  family  that  tended  him  so  care- 
fully, they  answered  him  at  once  that  it  was  that  of 
Bleda,  the  brother  of  Attila. 

His  countenance  changed,  and  he  asked  no  more 
questions.  Ere  he  had  sat  long  there  the  horsemen  re- 
turned from  the  field,  bringing  with  them  some  game 
which  they  had  procured ;  and  eagerly,  and  with  signs 
of  much  regard,  they  gathered  round  Theodore,  and 
wished  him  joy  on  his  recovered  health.  Towards 
evening  two  herdsmen  drove  home  from  a  distance  a 
large  flock  of  diminutive  cattle,  and  a  shepherd  bropght 
some  sheep  into  the  fold.  Two  or  three  other  lesser 
flocks  were  driven  slowly  across  the  plain  to  different 
houses  in  the  village ;  but  the  men  who  drove  them  formed 
the  only  male  population,  with  the  exception  of  his  own 
attendants,  which  Theodore  had  yet  seen  since  he  en- 
tered Dacia. 

As  the  days  passed  on,  and  he  mingled  more  with  the 
people,  he  found  that  this  first  view  was  fully  confirmed, 
and  that  almost  all  the  men  of  the  land,  except  such  as 
were  too  old  or  too  young  to  bear  arms,  had  gone  forth 
with  Attila  in  his  invasion  of  the  Roman  empire. 

"  Were  Rome  now,"  thought  Theodore,  "  what  Rome 
once  was,  while  this  barbarian  monarch  invades  and 
ravages  the  East,  the  legions  of  the  West  would  pour 
across  Pannonia,  and,  sweeping  the  whole  land,  take 
as  hostages  the  women  and  children  here  left  unpro- 
tected. But  alas  !  I  fear  me  that  neither  the  legions 
of  the  East  will  have  power  to  withstand  the  myriads 
of  Attila,  nor  the  West  have  energy  to  hasten  his  re- 
turn, by  invading  his  territories,  and  taking  hostages 
for  his  future  tranquillity.  'Tis  true  they  may  not  know 
that  the  land  is  left  in  such  a  state ;  but,  alas !  I  must 
not  point  out  its  weakness.  Even  to  save  my  country, 
I  must  not  return  the  mercy  shown  me,  and  the  kind 
hospitality  received,  by  base  ingratitude.  Doubtless, 
when  strength  returns,  I  could  escape  ;  doubtless  I  could 
bear  to  Valentinian,  or,  better  still,  to  ^Etius,  tidings  of 
the  condition  in  which  this  land  is  left,  and  thereby, 

Eerchance,  deliver  the  empire  itself.     But  it  must  not 
e  !     No,  no  !  such  a  task  must  not  be  mine." 
The  situation,  however,  was  a  painful  one  ;  and  the 
knowledge,  too,  that  he  was  dwelling  in  the  house  of 


152  ATTILA. 

Bleda,  of  the  man  who  had  striven  to  take  his  life,  and 
whose  enmity — thoiighhe  knew  not  why — was  evidently 
fiercely  raised  against  him,  added  to  the  gloom  he  felt, 
and  made  him  anxious  to  proceed  farther  into  the 
country.  i 

Ruga,  the  wife  of  Bleda,  however,  was  herself  one 
of  the  Alani,  from  a  tribe  which  had  remained  amid 
their  original  valleys  on  the  Georgian  side  of  Caucasus. 
She  had  by  this  time  learned  that  the  mother  of  the 
young  stranger  had  been  a  daughter  of  the  same  nation, 
tliough  sprung  from  a  different  tribe ;  and,  little  aware 
of  the  enmity  of  her  husband  towards  him,  she  now 
pressed  Theodore  anxiously  to  stay  with  them  till  the 
armies  of  the  Huns  returned.  Her  daughter,  too,  urged 
the  same  request  with  all  the  native  simplicity  of  a 
guileless  heart;  and  Theodore  himself,  as  innocent  in 
thought  and  purpose,  believed  that  he  could  there  re- 
maiii  happily,  without  risk  or  danger  to  the  peace  of 
any  one,  were  it  not  for  the  enmity  of  Neva's  father. 
He  made  inquiries,  however,  and  he  found  that  no  chance 
existed  of  any  of  the  Huns  returning  for  several  months  ; 
and  he  determined  to  remain  for  a  time,  hoping  that,  if 
he  could  win  the  regard  of  the  chieftain's  family,  the 
causeless  animosity  of  Bleda  himself  might  by  their  re- 
port be  done  away. 

There,  then,  he  stayed,  increasing  in  the  love  of  all, 
and  habituating  himself  to  the  language,  the  sports,  and 
the  manners  of  the  people.  He  had  found,  on  his  re- 
covery, that  the  purse  of  gold  pieces  which  he  had  borne 
with  him  from  Dalmatia,  and  which  had  been  but  little 
diminished  on  the  journey,  had  been  carefully  preserved 
during  his  sickness ;  and,  though  the  amount  was  not 
very  large,  yet  the  difference  in  the  value  of  everything 
among  the  Huns  and  among  the  Romans  was  so  great, 
that  his  small  store  seemed  grown  into  an  inexhaustible 
treasure.  The  attendants  wiiom  Attila  had  given  him 
would  receive  no  recompense  for  their  services  ;  and 
the  sports  of  the  chase,  which  he  pursued  in  company 
with  them  and  Cremera,  afforded  more  than  sufficient 
provision  for  his  followers  and  for  himself.  Ruga  de- 
clared that  her  house  had  never  been  so  bountifully 
supplied,  even  when  Bleda  himself  was  present;  and 
the  simpler  food,  to  which  the  women  of  the  Huns  were 
accustomed,  received  no  slight  additions  from  the  hunter 
skill  and  bold  activity  of  their  guest. 


ATTILA.  153 

For  several  weeks  Theodore  pursued  this  course  in 
peace,  proceeding  to  the  woods  or  plains,  or  to  the 
mountains  early  in  the  morning  with  his  followers,  and 
returning  ere  nightfall  to  the  village.  To  those  fol- 
lowers, indeed,  the  young  Roman  endeared  himself 
more  and  more.  His  courage,  and  the  dexterity  with 
which  he  acquired  all  their  wild  art  in  the  chase  and  in 
the  management  of  the  horse,  won  their  reverence ; 
while  his  kindness,  his  gentleness,  and  his  easy  suavity 
touched  another  chord  and  gained  their  hearts.  If  stag, 
or  wolf,  or  bear  turned  upon  him,  every  one  was  ready 
to  defend  him  ;  and  Theodore  soon  found,  that  on  any 
enterprise  which  he  chose  to  undertake,  except,  in- 
deed, where  some  higher  duty  forbade,  he  might  lead 
those  men  to  danger  or  death  itself.  Nor  did  he  make 
less  progress  in  the  regard  of  the  villagers.  The  old 
men  took  a  pleasure  in  teaching  him  their  language, 
and  in  telling  him  wild  tales  of  other  days  and  other 
lands ;  and  the  children  clung  to  him,  and  gathered 
round  his  knee  ;  the  shepherds  brought  him  whatever 
they  found  in  their  wanderings,  which  seemed  to  their 
rude  eyes  either  rare  or  valuable.  To  his  cultivated 
opinion  all  questions  were  referred;  and  when  they 
found  that,  ere  two  months  were  over,  he  could  wield 
their  arms,  and  speak  their  language  with  as  much  fa- 
cility as  they  could  themselves,  adding  to  their  barba- 
rian dexterity  all  the  arts  and  knowledge  of  a  civilized 
nation,  they  seemed  to  think  him  something  more  than 
mortal. 

The  wife  of  the  chieftain  forgot  her  matronly  state 
so  far  as  to  hold  long  conversations  with  him  on  the 
nation  whose  blood  flowed  in  both  their  veins  ;  and  her 
fair  daughter  sprang  forth  with  eager  gladness  to  wel- 
come him  back  from  the  chase,  or,  if  he  went  not  thither, 
wandered  with  him  in  the  mornings  to  show  him  fair 
paths  through  the  wood,  and  teach  him  what  fruits' were 
hurtful,  what  beneficial  to  man,  in  those  wild  solitudes ; 
or  sat  near  him  in  the  evenings,  and,  with  her  long 
lashes  veiling  her  cast  down  blue  eyes,  sang  all  the 
songs  which  she  knew  he  loved  to  hear. 

It  was  those  deep  blue  eyes,  and  their  look  of  de- 
voted tenderness,  which  first  woke  Theodore  from  his 
dream  of  peace.  Neva  was  lovely,  gentle,  kind,  noble 
in  all  her  feelings,  graceful  in  all  her  movements,  frank, 
simple,  and  sincere.    Pure  in  heart  and  mind,  the  ele- 


154  ATTILA. 

gances  of  polished  life  seemed  scarcely  needful  to  her 
native  grace.  In  whatever  task  employed,  she  looked, 
she  acted,  as — and  no  one  could  doubt  she  was — the 
daughter  of  a  king  :  and  yet  Theodore's  thoughts  were 
seldom  upon  her.  Sometimes,  indeed,  when  he  saw  a 
flower  of  peculiar  beauty,  or  when  his  arrows  struck 
some  bird  of  rare  plumage,  or  some  beast  of  a  finer  fur, 
he  thought,  "  I  will  take  this  home  for  Neva  ;"  but  his 
fancy  never  straj^ed  amiss  to  warmer  feelings  or  more 
dangerous  themes  than  those. 

Oh,  no  !  his  thoughts  were  far  away  !  The  one  deep- 
rooted  passion,  strong  and  intense  as  life  itself — that 
one  bright  passion,  as  pure,  when  it  is  noble,  in  man  as 
in  woman,  as  incapable  of  falsehood  either  by  thought 
or  act — left  not  one  fond  fancy  free  for  any  other  than 
her,  his  first,  young,  early,  only  love.  When  the  sun 
in  floods  of  glory  went  down  beyond  the  western  hills, 
he  thought  of  her  lonely  in  that  distant  land,  and  wil- 
lingly believed  that  with  her,  too,  memory  turned  to 
him.  When  the  bright  moon  wandered  through  the  sky, 
and  poured  her  silver  flood  of  light  over  those  wide 
plains,  he  w^ould  gaze  forth,  and  call  to  mind  that  first 
peculiar  night  when  he  heard  the  dear  lips  he  loved 
breathe  answering  vows  to  his  beneath  the  palace  por- 
tico on  the  Dalmatian  shore ;  he  would  call  up  again 
before  his  eyes  the  scene  in  all  its  loveliness  ;  he  would 
fancy  he  could  feel  that  soft,  dear  form  pressed  gently 
to  his  bosom  ;  he  would  seem  to  taste  the  breath  of 
those  sweet  lips  as  they  met  his  in  the  kiss  of  first  ac- 
knowledged love  ;  and  he  would  imagine — justly,  truly 
imagine — that  at  that  hour  the  same  treasured  re- 
membrances might  fill  the  bosom  of  Ildica  with  vis- 
ions as  entrancing,  and  that  memory  might  with  her, 
too,  give  to  hope  a  basis  whereon  to  raise  her  bright- 
est architecture.  When  the  morning  woke  in  the  skies, 
and  when,  ere  he  went  forth  to  taste  the  joys  of  re- 
newed existence,  he  knelt  down  to  off'er  to  the  God  of 
his  pure  faith  adoration,  and  thanks,  and  prayer,  the 
name  of  Ildica  would  first  rise  with  his  petitions  to 
Heaven,  and  her  happiness  would  be  the  subject  of  his 
first  aspirations. 

Could  he  think,  then,  of  any  other  1  could  he  dream 
that  it  was  possible  to  love  any  one  but  her  1  No  !  he 
did  not,  he  could  not ;  but,  as  time  wore  on,  and  sum- 
mer smik  glowing  into  the  arms  of  autumn,  there  came 


ATTILA.  155 

a  deep  light  into  the  eyes  of  Neva,  which  pained,  which 
alarmed  him.  He  would  sometimes,  when  he  suddenly 
turned  towards  her,  find  her  gazing  upon  him  with  a 
look  of  intense,  thoughtful  affection,  which  was  fol- 
lowed by  a  warm  and  rapid  blush ;  and,  without  one 
feeling  of  empty  vanity,  Theodore  began  to  see  that  his 
stay  might  produce  evil  to  her  who  had  so  kindly  tended 
him. 

Still,  however,  Neva's  regard  assumed  that  air  of 
simple,  unrestrained  frankness,  which  is  less  frequently 
the  token  of  love  than  of  friendship.  In  her  pure  mind, 
and  in  her  uncultivated  land,  all  seemed  clear  and  open 
before  her.  She  felt  no  shame  in  the  sensations  which 
she  knew  and  encouraged  towards  the  young  stranger. 
She  saw  no  obstacle  to  prevent  her  from  becoming  his 
bride.  She  was  the  daughter  of  a  king,  but  she  knew 
him  to  be  worthy  of  her  love  ;  and  as  that  love  became 
apparent  to  her  own  eyes  also,  she  only  felt  proud  of 
her  choice.  The  sole  difference  which  that  knowledge 
of  her  own  heart's  feelings  wrought  in  Neva  was,  that 
with  her  bright  brown  hair  she  now  began  to  mingle 
gold  and  gems,  and  that,  from  time  to  time,  a  bright  but 
transient  glow"  would  tinge  her  cheek  when  her  eyes 
and  Theodore's  met.  Far  from  shrinking  from  his  so- 
ciety, far  from  trembling  at  his  approach,  she  gave  way 
at  once  to  all  the  feelings  of  her  heart  as  they  arose ; 
greeted  him  with  glad  smiles  in  the  morning ;  sprang 
forth  to  meet  him  when  he  returned  from  the  chase  ;  sat 
by  him  in  the  lengthening  evenings ;  and,  feeling  the 
deep  earnest  love  of  first  affection  burning  at  her  heart, 
she  took  no  means  to  hide  or  to  conceal  it  from  others 
or  herself. 

Theodore  had  pondered  over  these  things  for  some 
days,  and  considered  how  it  were  best  to  act ;  but  he 
deceived  himself  in  regard  to  Neva  ;  and  the  very  open- 
ness with  which  she  suffered  her  passion  to  appear 
made  him  believe  that  it  was  as  yet  unconfirmed.  He 
compared  it  with  the  shy  and  trembling  love  of  Udica. 
He  remembered  the  same  kind  affection  in  her,  too, 
w^hen  a  girl,  ere  their  feelings  took  a  warmer  tone  than 
brotherly  regard  ;  the  candid  display  of  preference  for 
his  society,  and  the  interest  in  all  his  pursuits  which 
she  had  then  evinced.  He  recollected,  also,  the  change 
that  had  taken  place  as  simple  affection  grew  into  in- 
tense love — how  timid,  how  retiring,  how  apprehensive 


156  ATTILA. 

4 

that  love  had  been !  and  by  comparing  those  two  stages 
of  a  passion  he  liad  known  and  marked,  with  the  con- 
duct of  the  lovely  girl  under  whose  father's  roof  he  had 
dwelt — as  pure,  as  innocent,  as  full  of  real  modesty  as 
Ildica  herself — he  judged,  that  whatever  her  feehngs 
might  become,  they  were  not  yet  such  as  might  ever 
render  them  painful  to  herself. 

As  the  period  for  which  he  had  promised  to  remain 
had  not  yet  expired,  and  he  could  assign  no  cause  for 
suddenly  absenting  himself,  he  determined  to  seek  the 
first  opportunity  of  speaking,  in  the  presence  of  Neva,  of 
the  ties  which  bound  him  to  her  he  loved.  Little  men- 
tion had  hitherto  been  niade  of  his  family  or  his  cir- 
cumstances in  his  own  land.  The  wife  of  Bleda  seemed 
to  take  no  further  interest  in  his  former  life  than  was 
connected  with  his  mother  and  her  nation  ;  and  Neva 
herself,  in  the  present  happiness  which  she  derived 
from  his  stay  among  them,  appeared  never  to  remem- 
ber that  there  was  such  a  thing  as  a  past,  affecting  him 
in  a  way  she  knew  not — though  that  past  was  unfortu- 
nately destined  to  affect  all  the  future  for  herself.  She 
asked  nothing,  she  thought  of  nothing  but  of  the  present ; 
and  thus  Theodore  felt  that  he  would  have  to  commence 
the  subject  himself.  Though  it  was  one  he  loved  not 
to  speak  on  upon  every  light  occasion,  yet  he  resolved 
to  do  so.  But  still,  after  long  hesitation,  he  deter- 
mined not  to  tell  the  tale  of  his  early  days,  when,  sitting 
in  the  family  of  Bleda,  every  eye  might  be  ready  to 
mark  his  ov/n  emotions — or,  indeed,  those  of  others  ;  for 
although  to  his  own  heart  he  put  forward  the  motive 
of  concealing  the  expression  of  his  feelings,  his  real  in- 
ducement was  consideration  for  the  fair  girl,  who  might 
be  more  moved,  he  feared,  by  the  words  he  had  to  speak, 
than  he  was  willing  to  admit  even  to  himself. 

After  two  long  days  of  unsuccessful  hunting,  having 
found  nothing  within  several  miles  of  the  village,  he 
threw  down  his  spear  and  arrows,  declaring  he  would 
go  no  more ;  and  on  the  following  morning,  while  the 
dew  was  still  upon  the  grass,  Neva  offered  to  lead  him 
up  to  the  fall  of  a  river  in  the  woods,  whose  roar  he  had 
often  heard  at  a  distance,  but  which  he  had  never  seen, 
so  deeply  was  it  buried  in  the  intricacies  of  the  forest. 
He  gladly  followed,  resolved  to  seize  that  moment 
to  tell  her  all.  And  yet  Theodore  was  agitated,  for 
he  wished  not  to  pain  or  grieve  her ;  but  still  he  feared, 


ATTILA.  157 

from  her  whole  manner,  and  from  the  tender  light  which 
poured  from  her  blue  eyes,  that  the  words  he  had  to 
speak  would  be  displeasing  to  her  ear.  It  was  a  bright 
morning,  and  between  the  tall  trunks  of  the  trees,  over 
bush,  and  underwood,  and  mossy  turf,  the  slanting  sun 
poured  his  golden  hght,  in  the  first  bright  freshness  of 
the  rising  day. 

"  What  a  lovely  morning  is  this !"  said  Theodore, 
after  they  had  walked  on  some  way,  for  Neva  had  re- 
mained silent  under  emotions  of  her  own.  "  What  a 
lovely  morning  ! — how  clear,  how^  beautiful !" 

"  Have  you  not  such  in  your  own  land  V  demanded 
Neva. 

"  Oh  yes,"  answered  Theodore,  "  we  have  many ;  and 
these  mornings  and  the  evenings  are  our  chief  hours 
of  delight,  for  the  heat  of  the  risen  day  is  oppressive. 
I  remember  such  a  morning  as  this,"  he  added,  willing 
to  lead  the  conversation  to  the  matter  on  which  he  de- 
sired to  speak — "I  remember  such  a  morning,  some 
four  or  five  months  ago,  so  bright,  so  beautiful,  shining 
upon  my  path  as  I  returned  from  Constantinople  to- 
wards what  I  have  ahvays  called  my  home." 

"  And  was  it  not  your  home  ?"  demanded  Neva. 
"  Did  no  one  wait  you  there  to  welcome  you  V 

"  Oh,  several,"  answered  Theodore — "  several  that  I 
loved,  and  still  love  more  dearly  than  anything  else  on 
earth."  Neva  cast  down  her  eyes,  and  her  cheek  grew 
deadly  pale.  "  There  w  as  my  mother,"  continued 
Theodore — I  mean  the  mother  who  has  adopted  me, 
and  ever  treated  me  as  one  of  her  own  children."  The 
colour  came  again  into  Neva's  cheek.  "  Then  there 
was  my  sister,"  he  went  on.  "  And  last,"  he  added,  in 
a  lower  tone,  "  there  was  my  promised  bride,  my  Ildi- 
ca,  who  will  one  day  be  my  wife." 

Neva  spoke  not,  but  the  rose  again  left  her  cheek. 
That,  however,  was  the  only  sign  of  emotion  she  dis- 
played, except,  perhaps,  that  she  walked  on  more  rap- 
idly, and  that  her  small  feet  brushed  the  dew  from  the 
grass  on  either  side  of  the  path,  wavering,  as  she  went, 
with  an  unsteady  pace.  Theodore  followed  close  to 
her  side,  scarce  knowing  how  to  break  that  painful 
silence.  It  had  continued  so  long,  that,  ere  a  word  was 
uttered,  he  heard  the  roar  of  the  waterfall,  and  he  re- 
solved to  speak,  let  it  be  on  what  it  would.  But  at  the 
first  word  he  breathed,  the  fair  girl  pressed  her  right 

Vol.  I.~0 


158  ATTILA. 

hand  upon  her  heart  with  a  convulsive  sob,  and  fell 
fainting  at  his  feet. 

Theodore  caught  her  up  in  his  arms,  and  ran  on  upon 
the  patli.  He  could  not  find  the  cataract,  but  the  stream 
which  formed  it  soon  caught  his  eye  ;  and,  laying  Neva 
on  the  bank,  he  bathed  her  brow  with  water  from  the 
river,  and  strove  to  recall  her  to  herself  by  words  of 
comfort  and  consolation. 

At  length  she  opened  her  eyes ;  and  finding  herself 
lying  in  the  arms  of  the  man  she  loved,  with  her  head 
supported  on  his  shoulder,  she  turned  her  face  to  his 
bosom,  and  wept  long  and  bitterly.  Theodore  said  lit- 
tle, but  all  he  did  say  were  words  of  kindness  and 
of  comfort ;  and  Neva  seemed  to  feel  them  as  such,  and 
thanked  him  by  a  gentle  pressure  of  the  hand.  At 
length  she  spoke.  "  I  had  thought,"  she  said,  in  the 
undisguised  simplicity  of  her  heart,  "  I  had  thought  to 
be  your  first  and  only  wife.  I  was  foolish  to  think  that 
others  would  not  love  you  as  well  as  I." 

Theodore  had  now  the  harder  task  of  explaining  to 
her,  and  making  her  comprehend,  that  in  his  land  and 
with  his  religion,  polygamy,  so  common  among  her 
people,  could  not  exist ;  but  the  eflfect  produced  was 
more  gratifying  than  he  could  have  expected. 

"  Better,  far  better  that  it  should  not,"  cried  the  girl, 
raising  her  head,  and  gazing  full  in  his  face  with  those 
earnest,  devoted  eyes.  "  Better,  far  better  that  it 
should  not.  Had  you  asked  me,  I  could  not  have  re- 
fused, feeling  as  I  feel ;  but  I  should  have  been  mis- 
erable to  be  the  second  to  any  one.  To  have  seen  you 
caress  her,  to  have  knov>'n  that  you  loved  her  better, 
and  had  loved  her  earlier  than  you  loved  me,  would 
have  been  daily  misery;  but  now  I  can  love  you  as  a 
thing  apart.  You  will  marry  her,  and  I  will  have  no 
jealousy,  for  1  have  no  share  :  I  will  think  of  you  every 
hour  and  every  moment,  and  pray  to  all  the  gods  to 
make  you  happy  with  her  you  love.  But  oh,  stranger, 
it  were  better,  till  I  can  rule  my  feelings  and  my  words, 
and  gain  full  command  over  every  thought,  that  you 
should  leave  me." 

"  Would  to  God !"  said  Theodore,  "  that  I  had  never 
beheld  you,  or  that  you  could  forget  all  such  feelings, 
and  look  on  me  as  a  mere  stranger." 

"  Not  for  worlds,"  she  exclaimed,  "  not  for  all  the 
empire  of  my  uncle  Attila.     I  would  not  lose  the  re- 


ATTILA.  159 

membrance  of  thee  if  I  could  win  the  love  of  the  bright- 
est and  the  best  on  earth.  I  would  not  change  the 
privilege  of  having  seen,  and  known,  and  loved  thee, 
for  the  happiest  fate  that  fancy  could  devise.  Oh, 
Theodore,  would  you  take  from  me  my  last  treasure  1 
But  perchance  you  think  me  bold  and  impudent  in 
thus  speaking  all  that  is  at  my  heart ;  but  if  you  do  so, 
you  do  not  know  me." 

"  I  do,  I  do  indeed,"  cried  Theodore — "  I  do  know,  I 
do  admire,  1  do  esteem  you  ;  and  had  not  every  feeling 
of  my  heart  been  bound  to  another  ere  I  saw  you, 
1  could  not  have  failed  to  love  one  so  beautiful,  so  ex- 
cellent, so  kind.  Nay,  I  do  love  you,  Neva,  though  it 
must  be  as  a  brother  loves  a  sister." 

"  Hush,  hush!"  she  said.  "  Make  me  not  regret — 
and  yet  love  me  so  still.  Forget,  too,  that  I  love  you 
better,  but  oh,  believe  that  no  sister  ever  yet  lived  that 
will  do  for  you  what  Neva  will ;  and  in  the  moment  of 
danger,  in  the  hour  of  sickness,  in  the  time  of  wo,  if 
you  need  aid,  or  tendance,  or  consolation,  send  for  me  ; 
and  though  my  unskilful  hand  and  tongue  may  be  little 
able  to  serve,  the  deep  affection  of  my  heart  shall  find 
means,  if  they  be  bought  with  my  life's  blood,  to  com- 
pensate for  my  weakness  and  my  want  of  knowledge  ;" 
and,  carried  away  by  the  intensity  of  her  feelings,  she 
once  more  cast  herself  on  his  bosom  and  wept.  "  But 
you  must  leave  me,"  she  continued,  "  you  must  leave 
me.  Yes,  and  when  I  see  you  again,  I  will  see  you 
calmly — not  as  you  now  see  me.  Yet  you  must  have 
some  excuse  for  going,  and  whither  will  you  go  ]" 

"  When  your  uncle  Attila  bade  me  come  into  Dacia 
till  his  return,"  replied  Theodore,  "  Edicon,  who  re- 
mained with  me,  affirmed  that  it  was  the  monarch's 
will  I  should  proceed  to  his  own  usual  dwelling-place, 
on  the  banks  of  the  Tibiscus." 

Neva  thought  for  a  moment  as  if  she  did  not  remem- 
ber the  name  ;  but  then  exclaimed,  "  Ha !  the  Teyssa — 
what  you  call  the  Tibiscus  we  name  the  Teyssa.  That 
is  much  farther  on ;  but  let  my  mother  know  that  such 
were  the  directions  of  Attila,  and  she  will  herself  hasten 
your  departure  ;  for  my  father  and  my  uncle  often  jar, 
and  my  mother  would  fain  remove  all  cause  of  strife. 
Or  I  will  tell  her,"  she  added,  vvith  a  faint  smile,  "  I  will 
tell  her ;  and  you  shall  see  how  calmly  I  can  talk  of 
your  departure." 


160  ATTILA. 

She  then  spoke  for  some  time  longer,  in  a  tranquil 
tone,  of  all  the  arrangements  that  were  to  be  made ; 
and  as  she  did  so,  still,  from  time  to  time,  her  eyes 
were  raised  to  the  young  Roman's  face  with  a  long,  ear- 
nest glance,  as  if  she  would  fain  have  fixed  his  image 
upon  memory,  so  that  no  years  could  blot  it  out.  Then 
in  the  stream  she  bathed  the  traces  of  the  tears  from  her 
eyes ;  and  looking  up  calmly,  though  sadly,  said,  "  Let 
us  go,  my  brother.     It  is  sweet,  but  it  must  end." 

They  took  some  steps  homeward ;  but,  ere  they  had 
gone  far,  she  paused,  and  laying  her  hands  upon  his, 
she  said,  "  Oh,  Theodore !  promise  me,  that  if  ever, 
while  you  are  in  your  land,  you  need  help  or  aid,  you 
will  send  to  me.  Send  me  this  trinket  back  by  a  mes- 
senger ;"  and  she  gave  him  one  of  the  small  golden  or- 
naments which  she  wore  in  her  hair ;  "  send  it  me  back, 
and  I  will  come  to  you,  be  it  wheresoever  it  may. 
Deeply  as  I  love  thee,  I  would  not  wed  thee  now  for 
worlds  ;  but,  oh !  I  would  give  life  itself  to  render  thee 
some  service,  which  should  make  thee  say  in  after 
years,  '  Alas!  poor  Neva !  she  loved  me  well  indeed !' " 

Thus  wandered  they  homeward ;  and  often  did  she 
pause  to  add  something  more,  and  to  give  some  new 
token  of  that  deep  and  all  unconcealed,  but  pure  affec- 
tion, which  had  taken  so  firm  a  hold  of  her  young 
heart.  Theodore,  too,  strove  to  sooth  and  to  comfort 
her ;  and  all  that  was  kind,  all  that  was  tender — except 
such  words  as  only  the  ear  of  the  beloved  should  ever 
hear — he  said,  to  give  her  consolation.  As  they  came 
near  the  village,  however,  she  spoke  less,  for  she  seemed 
to  fear  that  her  emotions  might  leave  traces  behind  for 
other  eyes  than  his ;  but  she  gained  courage  as  they 
went  on  ;  and,  to  Theodore's  surprise,  when  they  joined 
the  household,  no  sign  of  all  the  busy  feelings  which  he 
knew  to  be  active  in  her  breast  was  in  the  slightest  de- 
gree apparent,  except,  indeed,  in  a  shade  of  grave  mel- 
ancholy, which  was  not  natural  to  her. 

She  chose  the  moment  while  all  were  assembled  at 
the  morning  meal  to  announce  to  her  mother  the  ne- 
cessity of  Theodore's  departure.  The  matron  had 
made  some  observation  upon  the  young  Roman's  recov- 
ered health,  when  she  replied,  "  We  shall  lose  him 
soon,  my  mother.  He  has  been  telling  me  that  the 
commands  of  Attila  the  King  were  strict,  that  he  should 
go  on  to  the  king's  own  dweUing  by  the  Teyssa." 


ATTILA.  161 

She  spoke  calmly ;  so  calmly,  indeed,  that  there  were 
but  two  persons  among  all  the  many  who  seemed  to 
notice  that  she  touched  on  things  more  interesting  than 
ordinary.  Theodore  could  not  but  know  all  the  emo- 
tions which  that  calm  tone  concealed  ;  and  her  mother, 
as  soon  as  she  heard  the  subject  of  her  discourse,  fixed 
her  eyes  upon  her  with  a  look  of  mingled  wonder,  ten- 
derness, and  surprise,  as  if  she,  too,  could  see  into 
her  daughter's  heart,  and  asked,  by  that  glance,  "  Can 
you,  my  child,  talk  thus  calmly  of  his  going  V 

After  that  momentary  pause,  however,  she  replied 
aloud,  "If  Attila  bade  him  go  forward,  the  king  must  be 
obeyed.  My  son,  you  should  have  told  us  this  before ; 
for  though  my  husband  is  also  a  king,  yet  Attila  is  his 
elder  brother,  and  we  wish  not  to  offend  him." 

"  If  fault  there  be,"  replied  Theodore,  "  the  fault  is 
mine.  The  commands  of  the  king  affixed  me  no  cer- 
tain time ;  and  I  do,  indeed,  believe  that  he  named  his 
own  residence  as  my  dwelling-place  only  for  my  greater 
safety." 

"  'Tis  not  unlikely,"  said  the  wife  of  Bleda ;  "  but  still, 
my  son,  you  must  obey  :  tarry  not  here  more  days  than 
needful ;  for  w^e  know  not  when  Attila  or  Bleda  may 
return." 

Theodore,  too,  knew  that  it  was  needful  he  should 
go,  and  yet  he  felt  regret  at  leaving  those  who  had 
treated  him  with  so  much  kindness  and  tenderness ;  at 
leaving  scenes  in  which  he  had  known  a  brief  interval 
of  iranquilhty  and  peace,  after  having  undergone  so  long 
a  period  of  grief,  of  horror,  and  of  danger.  He  gave 
himself  but  the  interval  of  one  day,  however  ;  and  then, 
in  the  early  morning,  his  horse  and  his  followers  stood 
prepared  at  the  door.  The  wife  of  Bleda  gave  him  her 
blessing  as  he  departed  with  motherly  tenderness  ;  and 
Neva  herself  stood  by,  and  saw  him  mount  without  a 
tear  wetting  the  dark  lashes  of  her  tender  blue  eyes, 
without  a  sigh  escaping  from  her  lip.  All  she  said  was, 
"Farewell,  my  brother:  remember  us." 

Theodore  himself  could  have  wept ;  and  as  he  saw 
her  stand  there  in  her  beauty,  her  innocence,  and  her 
devoted  love,  deeply  and  bitterly  did  he  regret — ay,  and 
reproach  himself,  for  having,  however  unwittingly, 
brought  a  cloud  over  her  sunshine,  and  first  dulled  the 
fine  metal  of  her  bright  and  affectionate  heart.  He 
sprang  upon  his  horse  and  rode   away,  turning  back 

02 


162  ATTILA. 

more  than  once  to  gaze  upon  them  as  they  stood  gath- 
ered round  the  door  of  their  dwellmg,  and  to  wave  his 
hand  in  token  of  adieu. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE    HERMITS. 

The  life  of  man  is  a  series  of  scenes,  generally  con- 
nected with  each  other,  often  by  the  strong  bond  of 
cause  and  effect,  but  often  linked  together  by  some  fine 
accidental  tie,  having  no  reference  to  the  principal 
events.  Each  day  may  be  considered  as  one  act  in 
life's  drama ;  and  sleep  comes  with  night  to  change 
the  scenes,  and  give  the  weary  actors  a  moment  of 
repose.  Sometimes,  however,  there  breaks  in  among 
the  rest — ^but  detached  from  all  those  that  surround  it — 
a  scene  in  which  we  live,  and  act,  and  interest  ourselves 
for  a  limited  and  defined  space  of  time,  but  which,  when 
it  is  over,  produces  no  effect  upon  our  general  fate, 
acts  as  no  cause  in  the  complicated  machinery  of  our 
fortunes.  Sometimes  the  scene  may  be  fair  and  sweet, 
a  solitary  well  in  the  desert,  which  cools  our  lip  and 
quenches  our  thirst,  but  supplies  no  river,  waters  no 
distant  land.  Sometimes  it  is  terrible  and  dangerous,  a 
thunder-storm  suddenly  sweeping  over  the  summer 
sky,  coming  when  all  is  brightness,  reigning  an  hour  in 
awful  majesty,  and  then  passing  away,  and  leaving  the 
world  as  tranquil  as  it  was  before. 

Theodore  rode  on,  taking  his  way  across  the  woods, 
and  asking  his  heart  what  was  to  come  next ;  what,  in 
all  the  vast,  vague  variety  of  earthly  chances,  was  the 
next  thing  that  was  to  befall  him  on  his  onward  way. 
When,  but  a  few  short  months  before,  he  had  stood 
upon  the  mount  of  cypresses  with  those  he  loved,  and 
had  gazed  over  the  calm  splendour  of  the  Adriatic  Sea, 
with  life  all  before  him,  and  hope  to  lead  him  on,  he 
had  fancied  that  his  fate  would  be  as  fair  and  bright  as 
the  glowing  scene  beneath  his  eyes ;  his  future  had 
promised  to  be  as  calm  and  unbroken  by  a  storm  as 
those  tranquil  waters,  sleeping,  unruffled,  beneath  the 


ATTILA.  163 

setting  sun.  Had  any  one  less  than  a  prophet  then  told 
him  all  that  the  next  two  months  should  behold,  he 
would  have  laughed  the  prediction  to  scorn,  in  the  full, 
confiding  hope  of  undisappointed  youth.  But  now  that 
for  many  a  week  every  hour  had  brought  its  change, 
that  he  had  seen  the  expectations  of  to-day,  to-morrow 
trampled  under  foot,  and  the  sunshine  of  the  morning 
darkened  ere  the  evening's  close,  he  had  learned  still 
to  ask  himself,  "  What  next  V  with  every  day  that  rose, 
and  every  change  of  scene  that  came  upon  him.  That 
blessed  reliance  on  the  dear  deluding  tales  of  hope, 
which  is  youth's  peculiar  power,  had  left  him  for  ever ; 
and  though  the  "What  next?"  might  be  asked,  with 
the  determination  of  bearing  all  worthily,  yet  appre- 
hension had  always  its  share  in  the  question  too. 

The  woods  were  wide  and  intricate ;  and,  as  Theo- 
dore and  his  companions  rode  on,  the  trees  and  shrubs 
began  to  change  their  character  :  enormous  birches, 
tossed  about  upon  the  rocks  and  rising  grounds,  suc- 
ceeded to  the  beech  and  oak ;  and  after  them  again 
came  the  tender  larch  and  the  dark  pine,  as  the  road 
began  to  wind  up  into  the  mountains.  It  was  a  sultry 
autumn  day ;  and  the  misty  haze  that  hung  about  the 
w^orld,  with  the  close  electric  air  of  the  forest,  were 
ominous  of  a  thunder-storm ;  and  at  length  the  clouds, 
gathering  round  the  summits  of  the  higher  hills,  burst 
upon  the  heads  of  Theodore  and  his  followers  just  as 
they  had  reached  a  spot  where,  from  the  top  of  the 
first  range  of  eminences,  they  could  gaze  over  a  wide 
extent  of  forest  ground.  The  rain  poured  down  in  tor- 
rents, the  lightning  flickered  through  the  sky  ;  but  nei- 
ther of  those  w^ould  have  prevented  Theodore  from 
pursuing  his  way,  had  not  the  mountain  paths  they  fol- 
lowed become  so  slippery  with  the  rain  that  his  horse 
could  not  advance,  and  even  the  lighter  and  more  sure- 
footed beasts  of  the  Huns  could  make  no  progress. 

They  were  debating  as  to  where  they  could  find  shel- 
ter, when  suddenly  they  beheld,  standing  on  the  rock 
above,  a  tall,  thin  human  form,  scantily  covered  by  its 
tattered  robes  from  the  wind  or  storm.  He  was  gazing 
down  upon  them  without  speaking ;  but  Theodore,  as 
soon  as  he  turned  his  eyes  that  way,  recollected  the 
enthusiast  Mizetus,  who  had  attempted  to  persuade  the 
people,  during  the  earthquake  in  Dalmatia,  to  stay  and 
perish  amid  the  ruins  of  the  falling  palace.     He  had 


164  ATTILA. 

heard  long  before  that  the  enthusiast  had  wandered 
over  many  parts  of  the  earth,  and  had  dwelt  long  in 
deserts  and  barren  places  as  a  hermit,  according  to 
the  prevaihng  superstitions  of  the  day  ;  and  the  young 
Roman  doubted  not,  that  since  he  had  been  driven  forth 
by  the  partial  destruction  of  Aspalathos,  Mizetus  had 
again  returned  to  his  erratic  hfe,  and  found  his  way  to 
the  frontiers  of  Pannonia.  "  Go  up  to  him,  Cremera," 
said  Theodore — "go  up  to  him,  and,  telHng  him  who 
we  are,  ask  him  where  we  can  find  shelter,  for  he  must 
surely  have  some  cave  or  hut  wherein  to  dwell  him- 
self." 

The  Arab  obeyed,  leaving  his  horse  below ;  but  the 
enthusiast  made  him  no  reply,  gazing  sternly,  and  even 
fiercely  at  him,  till  the  freedman  used  some  angry 
words  to  drive  him  to  an  answer.  He  then  exclaimed 
aloud,  "  Get  ye  gone  !  get  ye  gone  from  me,  ye  miser- 
able, worldly,  self-seeking  generation !  get  ye  gone ! 
Ye  shall  not  pollute  my  dwelling.  Farther  on  ye  will 
find  one  who  will  give  welcome  alike  to  the  lustful  Ro- 
man and  the  bloody,  barbarous  Hun.  Get  ye  gone  !  I 
will  have  naught  to  do  with  ye.  On,  on  upon  the  path, 
I  say :  ye  will  find  shelter  onward  to  cover  your  heads 
from  the  earthly  storm,  tliough  not  from  the  tempest  of 
God's  indignation." 

Cremera  reported  to  his  master  the  reply  he  had  re- 
ceived, for  the  thunder  prevented  it  from  reaching,  at 
once,  any  ears  but  his  ov.'n ;  and  Theodore,  as  the  only 
course,  slowly  pursued  the  path  along  which  Mizetus 
had  pointed,  looking  anxiously,  as  he  proceeded  over 
the  wet  and  slippery  rocks,  surrounded  by  precipices 
and  impeded  by  scattered  fragments,  for  some  sign  of 
human  habitation.  It  was  long  ere  he  discovered  any, 
however ;  and  was  indeed  passing  on,  when  Cremera 
exclaimed,  "  There  is  a  cave !  there  is  a  cave !  and 
something  standing  therein  like  the  figure  of  a  man." 

Theodore  hesitated  not ;  but  leading  his  horse  towards 
the  narrow  mouth  of  a  cavern  which  he  now  beheld, 
ascended  the  steep  path  with  risk  and  difficulty.  The 
Huns  followed ;  and  though,  on  entering,  they  discov- 
ered that  the  object  which  Cremera  had  taken  for  a 
man  was  in  fact  a  large  crucifix,  they  found  seated 
within  the  cave  one  of  those  many  devout  but  enthusi- 
astic beings,  thousands  of  whom  in  that  age  devoted 
their  lives  to  solitude  and  privation,  on  a  mistaken  prin- 


ATTILA.  165 

ciple  of  religion.  Some  subjected  themselves  to  the 
most  tremendous  inflictions,  thinking  thereby  to  please 
God ;  and  the  pillar  and  the  chain  still  find  their  place 
in  history  as  illustrations  of  human  fanaticism.  But 
the  hermit  here  was  of  a  different  character  :  his  en- 
thusiasm had  taken  a  different  form  ;  and  though  not  less 
wild,  perhaps  we  might  say  not  less  diseased,  prompted 
him  not  to  the  severer  sufferings  which  were  indispen- 
sable to  obtain  the  reputation  of  sanctity  among  the 
anchorites  of  the  Thebais.  He  dwelt,  it  is  true,  but  in 
a  cavern  of  the  rock ;  but  that  cavern,  high  up  on  the 
mountain  side,  was  dry,  and  not  unwholesome :  his 
dress  was  indeed  composed  of  nothing  but  skins,  yet 
the  inhabitants  of  the  country  were  principally  clothed 
with  the  same  materials,  though  arranged  in  a  more 
convenient  and  agreeable  form  :  his  bed,  which  was 
raised  high  with  rushes  and  forest  hay,  was  piled  up 
above  that  with  soft  and  warm  skins ;  and  the  contri- 
butions not  only  of  some  neighbouring  villages  on  the 
other  side  of  the  hills,  but  of  many  distant  towns  (for 
the  whole  land  regarded  him  as  a  holy  being),  supplied 
him  plentifully  with  good  and  varied  food.  His  appear- 
ance, however,  was  venerable ;  and  his  countenance, 
half  covered  as  it  was  with  a  long  white  beard  and  a 
profusion  of  silvery  hair,  was  calm,  peaceful,  and  mild, 
and  well  calculated  to  obtain  both  reverence  and  love. 
There  was,  indeed,  an  occasional  look  of  worldly 
shrewdness  seen  upon  those  high  but  withered  features, 
which  might  have  made  many  a  suspicious  man  doubt 
the  sincerity  of  his  vocation ;  but  there  came  also  from 
his  eyes,  from  time  to  time,  gleams  of  quick  uncertain 
light :  whenever  he  approached  particular  subjects,  too, 
his  whole  air  and  manner  changed,  his  colour  mounted, 
his  eye  flashed,  his  lip  quivered ;  and  Theodore  could 
not  gaze  upon  that  countenance,  under  all  its  frequent 
changes,  without  believing  that  some  slight  touch  of  in- 
sanity had  warped  an  intellect  originally  fitted  for  high 
and  noble  things.  When  he  rose  to  welcome  the  stran- 
gers, his  beard  fell  down  below  his  girdle,  and  his  long 
nails,  untrimmed  for  many  a  year,  were  exposed  in  all 
their  deformity.  His  manners,  however,  were  noble, 
one  might  say  courtly,  for  there  was  grace  as  well  as 
dignity,  and  polished  terms  as  well  as  mild  and  benev- 
olent ideas.  He  asked  no  questions,  neither  whence 
the  strangers  came  nor  whither  they  were  going ;  but 


166  ATTILA.  , 

gladly  gave  them  shelter  from  the  storm,  and  spread 
before  them  such  viands  as  his  cell  contained,  pressing 
them  to  partake  with  hospitable  care,  and  blessing,  in 
the  name  of  God,  the  food  to  which  he  invited  them. 
His  eye,  however,  rested  upon  Theodore  ;  and  though 
the  youth  had  by  this  time  adopted  in  a  great  degree 
the  dress  of  the  Huns,  yet  his  air  and  countenance  were 
not  to  be  mistaken,  and  the  hermit  addressed  him  at 
once  in  Latin. 

"  There  is  a  hermit  from  our  native  land,"  he  said, 
after  some  conversation  upon  other  subjects,  "  living 
near,  and  doubtless  a  holy  and  religious  man  he  is ; 
but  the  Almighty  has  not  endued  him  with  the  spirit  of 
sufferance  towards  his  fellow-creatures,  and  he  thinks 
that  he  cannot  serve  God  without  abhorring  men.  He 
was  sent  hither  unto  me  some  months  ago  by  Eu- 
genius,  bishop  of  Margus,  to  ask  mine  aid  and  counsel 
in  dealing  with  the  Huns ;  but,  when  he  had  received 
his  answer,  he  would  not  depart,  and  has  remained 
here  ever  since,  doubtless  sent  as  another  thorn  in  my 
flesh." 

Theodore  very  well  conceived  how  the  wild  enthu- 
siast might  become  a  thorn  in  the  flesh  of  any  one  less 
fanatical  than  himself,  and  he  replied,  "  He  refused  us 
shelter  but  now,  reverend  father;  and  sent  us  on  to 
thee  in  the  midst  of  the  storm,  although  I  know  him 
well.  He  dwelt  for  some  two  years  at  Aspalathos,  on 
the  Illyrian  coast,  and  gained  high  repute  for  sanctity 
among  the  common  people ;  but  in  the  terrible  earth- 
quake in  which  we  had  all  nearly  perished  some  five 
or  six  months  since,  he  strove  to  persuade  the  people 
to  remain  instead  of  leaving  the  falling  buildings, 
prophesying  that  the  last  day  was  about  to  appear." 

"  He  prophesy !  my  son,"  cried  the  hermit,  with  a 
wild  look  of  scorn  ;  "  no,  no  ;  the  gift  of  prophecy  has 
not  fallen  upon  him.  It  is  for  that  he  hates  me:  and 
because  I  impart,  as  I  am  directed,  the  knowledge  of 
those  things  that  are  revealed  unto  me  to  all  who  ask 
it,  he  abhors  and  reviles  me." 

Theodore  made  no  reply ;  for  the  spirit  of  prophecy 
was  claimed  by  many  a  one  in  those  days  :  and  though 
their  predictions  had  often  proved  false  and  worthless, 
yet  that  extraordinary  endowment  had  been  too  re- 
cently exercised  and  confirmed  by  facts  for  any  one  in 
that  age  to  say  that  the  purpose  was  accomplished  and 


ATTILA.  167 

the  power  withdrawn  from  the  children  of  men.  The- 
odore had  learned,  however,  to  doubt ;  and,  therefore, 
he  paused  ere  he  gave  credit  to  the  gift  which  the  her- 
mit evidently  wished  to  insinuate  that  he  possessed. 

"  During  the  v/hole  of  this  day,"  continued  the  old 
man,  when  he  saw  that  the  young  Roman  did  not  an- 
swer, "  1  have  been  waiting  anxiously,  looking  for  the 
approach  of  some  stranger  from  distant  lands.  There 
has  been  a  knowledge  of  the  coming  of  some  one  upon 
me  since  the  first  dawn  of  day ;  but  it  was  not  thee  I 
expected,  my  son.  It  was  some  one  more  powerful, 
some  one  more  terrible,  with  whom  I  might  have  to 
wrestle  and  contend.  I  know  not — I  cannot  have  de- 
ceived myself.  Still,  it  is  now  past  the  third  hour,  and 
no  one  has  yet  come." 

"  I  should  think,"  replied  Theodore,  "  that  it  were 
not  likely  any  one  would  come ;  for  all  the  great  and 
powerful  of  the  land  are  absent  with  Attila,  and  we 
have  made  a  long  journey  this  morning  without  en- 
countering a  living  creature." 

"  But  have  you  had  no  tidings  of  Attila's  return  1" 
demanded  the  hermit.  "  Some  messengers,  who  passed 
by  this  place  but  two  days  ago,  spoke  of  it  as  likely, 
and  brought  me  presents  from  the  king." 

Theodore  would  not  suffer  himself  to  smile,  although 
he  thought  that  the  hermit,  like  many  another  man, 
might  deceive  himself  in  regard  to  hfs  own  powers, 
and  confound  shrewd  calculations  with  presages.  The 
old  man  had  heard,  it  seemed,  that  Attila  was  likely 
to  return ;  the  messengers  might  very  probably  have 
dropped  some  hint  as  to  the  time  ;  and  the  mind  of  the 
hermit  himself  having  calculated  the  probabilities,  the 
impression  that  it  would  be  as  he  anticipated  had  be- 
come so  strong  that  he  looked  upon  that  impression  as 
a  certain  presage ;  and,  if  fulfilled,  M'ould  consider  it 
thenceforth  as  a  new  instance  of  his  prophetical  inspi- 
ration. 

Theodore  restrained  all  expression  of  such  thoughts, 
however,  and  merely  replied,  "  Then,  by  his  sending 
you  presents,  you  already  know  Attila,  and  are  pro- 
tected by  him." 

"  I  know  him,  my  son,"  replied  the  old  man,  "but  I 
am  protected  by  a  higher  king  than  he  is.  He  rather 
may  call  himself  protected  by  me,  or,  at  the  least,  di- 
rected, though  he,  as  I  am,  is  but  an  instrument  in  the 


168  ATTILA. 

hands  of  God.  The  sins  of  those  who  call  themselves 
Christians  have  gone  up  on  high,"  he  continued,  while 
a  wild  and  wandering  gleam  of  light  glistened  in  his 
eyes,  and  his  pale  cheek  flushed — "  the  sins  of  those 
who  call  themselves  Christians  have  gone  up  on  high, 
and  the  vices  of  the  east  and  the  west  have  risen  up  to 
heaven  as  foul  and  filthy  as  the  smoke  of  a  heathen 
sacrifice.  They  have  called  down  judgments  upon  the 
earth ;  lightnings,  and  tempests,  and  earthquakes,  and 
sickness,  and  pestilence,  and  warfare ;  and,  lo !  among 
the  visitations  of  God,  I  tell  thee,  young  man,  this  Attila 
the  King  is  one  of  the  greatest — an  appointed  instru- 
ment to  punish  the  iniquities  of  the  land !  So  long  as> 
he  shall  do  exactly  the  work  assigned  him,  and  not  dis- 
obey the  word  that  is  spoken,  he  shall  prosper  on  hi» 
way,  and  shall  sweep  the  lands  from  the  east  to  the 
west,  and  from  the  north  to  the  south :  he  shall  stretch 
out  one  hand,  and  it  shall  touch  the  Propontic  Gulf; 
and  he  shall  stretch  out  the  other,  and  dip  it  in  the 
German  Ocean;  but  neither  the  city  of  Romulus  nor 
the  palace  of  Constantine  shall  he  see  or  injure.  He 
shall  pull  down  the  cities,  he  shall  destroy  the  nations, 
he  shall  trample  under  foot  the  yellow  corn,  and  the 
purple  fig,  and  the  sweet  grape.  Of  their  olive-trees 
he  shall  light  fires  to  warm  him  in  the  night ;  and  with 
their  flocks  and  herds  he  shall  feed  the  myriads  that 
follow  him  to  victory  and  spoil.  Annies  shall  not 
stand  before  him  for  an  hour,  and  fenced  cities  shall 
not  keep  him  out ;  he  shall  destroy  wherever  he  cometh, 
and  behind  him  he  shall  leave  a  bare  plain ;  but  the  life 
of  not  one  of  those  appointed  to  be  saved  shall  he  take  ; 
and  if  he  touch  but  a  hair  of  their  heads,  the  power 
shall  pass  away  from  him,  and  he  shall  die  a  death 
pitiful  and  despised.  Lo !  he  comes,  he  comes  !"  and 
spreading  wide  his  arms,  with  a  wild  but  striking  ges- 
ture he  advanced  to  the  mouth  of  the  cavern,  and 
gazed  out  upon  the  road  below. 

Theodore,  who  had  also  heard  the  sound  of  horses' 
feet  apparently  approaching  up  from  below,  followed  the 
hermit,  and  gazed  forth  likewise.  The  thunder  had 
ceased,  and  the  rain  was  falling  but  slowly,  yet  the 
ground  was  not  less  slippery  and  dangerous  than  when 
he  himself  had  passed.  Nevertheless,  coming  almost 
at  full  speed  was  seen  a  horseman,  followed  by  two 
others  at  some  short  distance  behind.    Not  a  false  step, 


ATTILA.  1 69 

not  a  stumble  did  the  charger  make ;  and  Theodore  at 
once  perceived  that  the  announcement  of  the  hermit 
was  correct,  and  that  it  was  Attila  himself  who  ap- 
proached to  within  a  yard  of  the  spot  where  they 
stood.  He  came  at  the  same  headlong  speed;  and 
then,  alighting  from  his  horse,  he  threw  the  bridle  over 
its  neck,  and  entered  the  cavern  with  a  slow,  calm,  and 
tranquil  step.  The  monarch  gazed  at  Theodore  for  a 
moment,  as  if  surprised  at  beholding  him  there ;  but  no 
slight  emotions  ever  found  their  way  to  the  countenance 
of  Attila  ;  and  his  only  observation  was,  "  Ha  !  my  son, 
art  thou  here  ]" 

Theodore  bent  his  head,  and  the  monarch  turned  to 
the  hermit,  who  pronounced  in  his  favour  a  singular 
prayer,  one  indeed  which  Theodore  imagined  might 
give  no  light  offence  to  the  stern  chieftain  of  the  Huns. 
"  May  God  enhghten  thine  eyes,"  he  said,  "  and  purify 
thy  spirit,  and  soften  thy  hard  heart,  and  make  thee 
leave  the  abomination  of  thine  idols,  so  that  thou  mayst 
become  a  servant  of  the  true  God,  and  not  merely  an 
instrument  of  his  vengeance !" 

But  Attila  merely  bowed  his  head,  saying,  "  May  the 
truth  shine  upon  me,  whatsoever  it  is !" 

"  Have  I  not  told  thee  the  truth  ?"  demanded  the  her- 
mit ;  "  did  I  not  tell  thee  thou  shouldst  conquer  1  Did 
I  not  say  that  no  one  should  be  able  to  oppose  thee,  if 
thou  didst  follow  the  words  that  were  spoken  unto 
thee  V 

"  I  did  follow  those  words,"  said  Attila :  "  I  spared 
Margus,  as  thou  badest  me,  and  I  gave  protection,  as 
thou  seest,  to  the  first  person  who  crossed  the  river  to 
meet  me ;"  and  he  turned  his  eyes  upon  Theodore. 

"Ha!"  cried  the  hermit,  "and  was  this  youth  hel 
I  spoke  but  the  words  that  were  appointed  me  to  speak," 
he  added ;  "  but  I  had  fancied  that  they  had  applied  to 
another — not  to  him.  God  rules  all  these  things  ac- 
cording to  his  own  Avise  will.  Say,  where  met  you  the 
youth]" 

Ere  Attila  could  reply,  the  sunshine,  which  was  now 
beginning  to  pour  into  the  mouth  of  the  cavern,  was 
darkened  by  a  tall  form,  which  advanced  with  wild 
gestures,  and  placed  itself  directly  before  the  monarch 
of  the  Huns.  It  was  that  of  the  enthusiastic  Mizetus ; 
who,  in  the  exalted  and  menacing  tone  in  which  he 
usually  spoke,  now  addressed  the  king,  exclaiming. 

Vol.  I.— P 


170  ATTILA. 

"  Wo,  wo  unto  the  nations  that  thou  wert  ever  bom 
Wo,  wo  unto  tlie  world,  far  and  near,  oh  son  of  Be- 
hal,  that  thou  didst  ever  see  the  hght !  Thou  art  died 
in  blood,  thou  dost  ride  in  gore.  The  earthquake  pre- 
cedes thee  ;  blue  lightnings  march  with  thy  host ;  fam- 
ine goes  forth  on  thy  right  hand,  and  pestilence  on  thy 
left." 

"  Shall  I  slay  him,  oh  might}''  king  V  cried  one  of  the 
attendants  of  Theodore,  who  had  unsheathed  his  sword, 
and  held  it  ready  to  strike  the  enthusiast  to  the  earth. 

"  Slay  him  not,"  said  Attila,  calmly,  "  slay  him  not ; 
the  man  is  mad,  and  speaks  the  truth.  What  hast  thou 
more  to  say,  my  brother?  Thou  hast  but  said  what  is 
true." 

"  I  have  said  what  is  true,"  continued  the  enthusiast, 
"  and  there  is  more  truth  to  be  said.  Wo  unto  thee  if 
thou  doest  not  the  will  of  God  !  I  say,  wo  unto  thee  ! 
for,  if  thou  failest  to  do  his  will,  all  the  evils  that  thou 
pourest  forth  upon  the  nations  shall,  in  return,  be 
poured  forth  upon  thee  ;  nor  shalt  thou  raise  thyself  up 
in  the  pride  of  thine  heart  and  say,  '  It  is  I  who  do  all 
these  things  !'  Neither  shalt  thou  suffer  thyself  to  be 
puffed  up  by  the  praises  of  the  weak  beings  who  now  sur- 
round thee.  Know  that  thou  art  no  more  than  a  sword 
in  the  hands  of  the  slayer ;  a  rod  in  the  hands  of  Him 
who  is  appointed  to  chastise.  Henceforth  and  for  ever 
cast  away  thy  vain  titles,  and  abandon  thine  idle  pre- 
tences. Thy  name  is  the  Scourge  of  God  ;  and  through 
all  nations,  and  unto  all  ages,  by  that  name  shalt  thou 
be  known." 

"  I  will  fulfil  thy  words,  and  do  accept  the  name,"  re- 
plied Attila,  calmly ;  "  yes,  I  will  be  called  the  Scourge 
of  God ;  and  truly,"  he  added,  with  a  dark  smile,  "  I 
have  already  scourged  the  land  from  the  Danube  to  the 
sea.  But  now,  my  friend,  hast  thou  more  to  say  1  for 
though  we  reverence  madmen,  and  those  whose  intel- 
lects the  gods  have  taken  into  their  own  keeping,  still 
my  time  is  precious,  and  I  would  be  alone." 

"I  am  not  mad,  oh  king,"  replied  the  enthusiast; 
"  but  I  tell  thee  truth,  and  yet  I  leave  thee,  having  giv- 
en thee  a  name  by  which  to  know  thyself,  and  by  which 
thou  shalt  be  known  when  thou  and  I  shall  have  gone 
to  our  separate  places  ;"  and  thus  saying  he  turned  and 
left  the  cave.* 

*  It  would  appear,  from  various  accounts,  that  the  tremendous 


ATTILA.  171 

"  I  will  also  go,  oh  king,"  said  Theodore,  "  and  will 
proceed  upon  the  way  towards  thy  royal  dwelling." 

"Do  so,"  said  Attila :  "go  not  too  fast,  and  I  will 
overtake  you  soon." 

Theodore  craved  a  blessing  of  the  hermit,  and  then 
departed.  The  road  still  mounted  for  some  way ;  but 
by  this  time  the  rain  was  over,  and,  as  a  drying  wind 
rose  up,  the  horses  could  better  keep  their  feet  upon 
the  steep  and  rocky  ground.  Passing  over  the  ridge  of 
the  mountain,  the  road,  in  about  half  an  hour,  began  to 
descend  through  woody  glens  and  wild  rocky  ravines, 
similar  to  those  which  they  had  passed  in  ascending ; 
and  as  Theodore  slowly  pursued  his  way,  he  revolved 
in  his  own  mind  that  part  of  the  conversation  between 
the  hermit  and  the  mighty  monarch  of  the  Huns  which 
referred  more  particularly  to  himself.  It  was  not  diffi- 
cult to  discover  that,  actuated  by  superstitious  feeling, 
Attila  had,  in  consequence  of  some  vague  warning  of 
the  hermit,  spared  the  young  Roman,  not  from  any  pre- 
possession in  his  favour,  but  solely  because  he  thought 
it  the  command  of  Heaven,  and  a  condition  on  which 
the  success  of  his  enterprise  depended.  Since  those 
first  events,  however,  the  monarch  had  shown  him 
kindness  of  an  extraordinary  character  ;  and  either  from 
some  vague  notion  of  their  fate  being  linked  together 
by  some  unexplained  and  mysterious  tie,  or  from  natu- 
ral feeling  of  favour  towards  him,  had  evinced  an  inter- 
est in  his  fate  and  happiness  which  demanded  grati- 
tude. Theodore  was  not  one  to  reason  very  nicely  as 
to  how  far  the  motives  of  a  benefactor  lessen  the  obli- 
gation imposed  by  his  kindness ;  and  he  only  remem- 
bered that  Attila  had  twice  saved  his  life,  as  well  as 
spared  him  where  any  other  Roman  would  have  fallen, 
when  he  intruded  uncalled  into  the  Dacian  territory; 
that  he  had  rescued  from  worse  than  death  those  he 
most  loved,  and  had  shown  a  kindly  sympathy  with 
feelings  that  few  supposed  him  to  possess.  Thus, 
though  he  revolved  the  means  of  learning  more  of 
what  were  the  first  motives  of  the  king  in  giving  him 
such  protection,  he  determined,  as  he  rode  on  with  his 
followers,  to  seek  every  opportunity  of  showing  his 
just  gratitude  towards  Attila. 

title  by  which  Attila  was  well  pleased  to  be  known,  was  given  to 
him  as  stated  above,  though  some  lay  the  scene  of  his  interview 
with  the  hermit  in  Gaul. 


172  ATTILA. 

They  had  not  gone  far,  however,  ere  the  sound  of 
horses'  feet  was  heard  echoing  among  the  crags  ;  and 
in  a  moment  after  Attila  was  by  the  young  Roman's 
side.  A  shght  shade  of  triumphant  pleasure — enough 
upon  the  countenance  of  Attila  to  tell  that  he  was 
moved  internally  by  no  slight  feelings  of  satisfaction — 
met  the  eye  of  Theodore  as  he  turned  to  answer  the 
monarch's  greeting. 

"  Art  thou  quite  recovered,  my  son  1"  demanded  the 
king.  "  We  heard  thou  hadst  been  ill,  and  likely  to 
die  ;  but  the  gods  protect  those  whom  they  love." 

"  I   am    now  quite  recovered,"   replied   Theodore ; 
"  but  I  was  very  ill,  and  should  have  died,  had  it  not" 
been  for  the  care  and  tenderness  of  thy  brother's  wife 
and  children." 

"  Let  the  good  acts  of  the  wife,"  replied  Attila, "  coun- 
terpoise the  bad  acts  of  the  husband.  But  Bleda  will 
not  seek  thy  death  now,  I  trust.  We  have  made  war 
in  company ;  we  have  conquered  together  ;  and  he  has 
had  a  plentiful,  a  more  than  plentiful  share  of  the  spoil. 
It  was  me  he  sought  to  injure  more  than  thee ;  and 
now  that  his  appetite  for  prey  and  power  seems  satis- 
fied, he  may  heed  the  suggestion  of  prudence,  and  for- 
get the  ambition  for  which  he  has  neither  talent  nor 
energy  sufficient." 

Though  the  words  of  the  king  might  have  led  to  a 
fuller  explanation  of  the  mysterious  tie  by  which  he 
seemed  to  feel  himself  bound  to  Theodore,  yet  the 
young  Roman  was  more  strongly  excited  by  the  men- 
tion of  barbarian  triumphs  in  his  native  land  than  by 
anything  which  could  personally  affect  himself;  and 
he  replied  with  an  inquiring  tone,  "  I  have  heard  no- 
thing, oh  Attila!  of  thy  progress  since  I  left  thee.  I 
have  received  no  tidings  even  of  how  the  war  has 
gone." 

"  War !"  said  Attila,  proudly ;  "  I  call  that  war  where 
brave  men  encounter  one  another,  and  fight  till  one 
surrenders  or  dies ;  but  such  is  not  that  which  the  Ro- 
mans have  offered  to  Attila.  Wouldst  thou  know, 
youth,  how  my  march  through  Moesia  and  Thrace  has 
gone  1  Thus  has  it  happened ;  but  call  it  not  a  warfare, 
for  warfare  there  has  been  none.  I  have  marched  upon 
the  necks  of  conquered  enemies  to  the  Mgean  Sea. 
Hoemus  and  Rhodope  have  not  stayed  me ;  seventy 
fortified  cities  have  fallen  before  me ;  and  the  last  Ro- 


ATTILA.  173 

man  army  which  dared  to  look  me  in  the  face  Hes  rot- 
ting in  the  Thracian  Chersonese,  as  thou  dost  call  it, 
or  feeds  the  vultures  from  Mount  Ada.  I  found  the  land 
a  garden,  and  I  left  it  a  desert,  even  as  I  promised  to 
do  ;  but  I  say  unto  the  weak  thing  that  sits  upon  the 
Eastern  throne, '  Why  hast  thou  made  me  do  this  1  Why 
hast  thou  called  me  to  slay  thy  subjects  and  lay  waste 
thy  cities  I  I  slept  in  peace  till  I  was  wakened  by 
thine  injustice.  My  sword  grew  unto  its  scabbard;  my 
people  kept  their  flocks,  and  were  turning  tillers  of  the 
ground  :  the  Danube  flowed  between  calm  and  peace- 
ful banks,  and  my  people  held  out  the  hand  of  amity 
unto  thine.  I  gave  thee  leave  to  trade  within  my  land, 
and  at  the  first  mart  where  thy  subjects  appeared  they 
plundered  mine,  and  scoffed  at  the  claims  of  justice.  I 
demanded  that  he  who,  as  I  was  told,  had  concerted 
the  deed  with  others,  Eugenius,  the  bishop  of  Margus, 
should  be  given  up  to  me ;  or  some  one,  proved  to  be 
the  robber,  in  his  stead.  Thou  wouldst  give  me  no  jus- 
tice, and  I  have  taken  vengeance ;  but  the  deed  is 
thine,  oh  weak  man,  for  thou  wert  the  aggressor.  Thou 
hast  lighted  the  fire  that  has  consumed  thy  land,  and 
the  punishment  is  not  yet  complete.'  " 

"  And  did  none  resist  thee  ]"  demanded  Theodore, 
sorrowfully.  "  Did  none  show  that  the  spirit  of  our 
fathers  still  lives  at  least  in  some  of  the  children  V 

"Yes,  yes,"  replied  Attila.  "There  was  one  small 
city,  called  Azimus,  whose  children  showed  me  what 
ancient  Romans  may  perhaps  have  been.  They  were 
worthy  to  have  fought  beneath  my  standard,  for  they 
repelled  that  standard  from  their  walls.  They  fought 
as  thou  wouldst  have  fought,  my  son,  and  they  won  the 
reverence  and  the  love  of  Aitila.  I  found  th at  they  might 
be  slain,  but  could  not  be  conquered ;  and  I  valued  my 
own  glory  too  much  to  risk  it  by  crushing  a  race  that  I 
acknowledged  to  be  worthy  of  life.  All  the  rest  fought, 
if  they  did  fight,  like  cowards  and  hke  slaves,  and  I 
slew  them  without  remorse ;  but  I  would  not  have  de- 
stroyed those  Azimuntines  to  have  saved  my  right  hand. 
Bear  witness,  youth,  of  what  I  tell  you.  My  people 
.  have  been  robbed  and  plundered  by  the  creatures  of 
Theodosius ;  I  demanded  justice ;  it  was  refused  ;  I 
took  revenge.  Thine  emperor  now  seeks  to  treat, 
because  he  thinks  he  can  deceive  Attila;  thou  shalt 
witness  his  proceedings,  and  shall  judge  whether  I 

P2 


174  ATTILA. 

Strike  again  without  just  cause.  Attila  slays  not  with- 
out cause  ;  but  thine  is  a  lettered  nation,  and  they  will 
transmit  a  false  tale  of  these  deeds  unto  after  limes. 
We  Huns  write  not  our  own  histories." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE    CHASE   OF    THE    URUS. 

Theodore  pursued  his  way  with  his  own  followers 
only  after  the  king  had  left  him  to  return  to  his  host ; 
and  less  than  two  days  more  brought  him  to  the  banks 
of  the  Tibiscus.  At  the  third  hour  after  sunrise,  on 
the  second  day  after  meeting  with  Attila,  he  came  in 
sight  of  one  of  the  few  fixed  habitations  of  the  wander- 
ing Scythians — the  ordinary  dwelling  of  the  king.  It 
was  all  unlike  a  Roman  capital,  and  yet  it  was  not  an 
unpleasing  scene. 

Upon  a  wide  plain,  broken  by  some  tracts  of  wood, 
and  skirted  by  some  rich  sloping  hills,  at  the  foot  of 
which  it  rested,  stood  a  congregation  of  several  thou- 
sands of  low  wooden  dwellings,  each  separated  from 
the  other,  and  covering  a  large  space  of  ground ;  but 
with  all  their  lowliness,  those  houses  were  not  with- 
out ornament — of  a  different  kind,  it  is  true,  from  that 
which  decked  the  stately  mansions  of  Rome  or  Con- 
stantinople, but  suited  to  the  buildings,  the  people,  and 
the  scene.  Before  each  ran  along  the  same  long  por- 
tico, supported  by  the  trunks  of  trees,  which  Theodore 
had  remarked  in  the  dwelling  of  Bleda ;  and  many  an  or- 
namental screen  and  piece  of  trellis-work  gave  lightness 
and  beauty  to  various  parts  of  the  building.  Trees  were 
scattered  here  and  there  among  the  houses,  giving  shade 
to  their  high-peaked  roofs ;  and  flowers  and  shrubs 
were  not  wanting,  such  as  the  infant  art  of  the  age  and 
country  could  produce. 

Many  a  busy  group  was  there,  engaged  in  all  the 
peaceful  occupations  of  pastoral  life ;  and  though  here,  as 
before,  women  and  children  formed  the  greater  part  of 
the  population,  a  number  of  men — mingling  with  the 
Other  groups — showed  Theodore  that  the  land  had  not 


ATTILA.  175 

been  so  entirely  left  without  defenders  as  he  had  ima- 
gined. As  he  rode  on  and  entered  the  streets — if  by- 
such  name  we  can  designate  the  wide  open  spaces  be- 
tween the  houses — the  population  became  more  dense  ; 
and  he  observed  among  them  every  shade  of  complex- 
ion and  every  line  of  feature  that  it  is  possible  to  con- 
ceive. The  colour  and  cast  of  countenance  of  the 
Huns  was  certainly  more  general  than  any  other ;  but 
there  also  might  be  seen  the  Roman  and  the  Greek, 
the  beautiful  tribes  of  Caucasus,  the  fair-haired  children 
of  the  North,  the  Goth,  the  Vandal,  and  the  Helvetian. 
Nor  was  this  mixture  merely  apparent,  but,  on  the  con- 
trary, it  was  borne  out  by  the  many  tongues  which 
struck  the  ear  of  Theodore  as  he  rode  along.  There 
his  own  language  was  frequently  heard ;  there  the 
tongue  of  his  mother's  land  was  common  ;  and  not  only 
did  Theodore  recognise  Greeks  and  Romans  as  cap- 
tives or  bondmen,  but  many  walked  free  and  armed 
among  the  rest  of  the  population,  as  if  holding  rank  and 
authority  among  them.  The  young  Roman  now  began 
to  perceive  that  Attila,  with  wise  policy,  had  left  the 
guardianship  of  his  land  during  his  absence  to  persons 
whose  situation,  as  fugitives  or  exiles  from  their  native 
country,  would  render  their  resistance  to  any  invading 
force  desperate,  determined,  and  unconquerable.  He 
himself,  as  he  passed,  excited  no  great  attention,  for  the 
Roman  features  with  the  Hunnish  dress  was  too  com- 
mon among  them  to  call  forth  much  remark.  Cremera 
the  Arab,  however,  by  his  powerful  limbs  and  gigantic 
height,  drew  all  eyes  upon  the  little  troop  as  it  ad- 
vanced towards  the  mansion  of  the  king ;  and  Theodore 
heard  many  an  observation  made  upon  him  and  his,  in 
tongues  wliich  the  speakers  thought  he  could  not  un- 
derstand, but  which  were  familiar  to  his  ear. 

At  length  they  reached  the  open  space  in  which  the 
dwelling  of  Attila  was  placed.  It  was  merely  a  wood- 
en building  like  the  rest,  but  far  more  extended;  and 
though  as  simple  as  any  in  some  respects,  yet  much 
more  ornamented  and  tasteful  in  others.  Besides  the 
principal  mansion,  a  number  of  smaller  houses  were 
congregated  in  the  same  space,  probably  destined  for 
the  reception  of  his  immediate  officers  and  friends ; 
but  the  whole  mass  of  buildings  thus  collected  was  sep- 
arated from  the  rest  by  a  piece  of  open  ground,  spread- 
ing on  all  sides  to  the  extent  of  several  acres.    In  this 


176  ATTILA. 

space  several  horsemen  were  exercising  themselves 
with  various  arms,  poising  tlie  spear,  casting  the  jave- 
lin, drawing  the  bow,  or  urging  the  mock  contest  with 
the  sword.  Under  the  porticoes  and  within  the  low 
screens  groups  of  women  and  children  were  seen  em- 
ployed in  various  household  occupations  and  juvenile 
amusements ;  and  the  whole  presented  a  picture  of 
cheerful,  active,  and  happy  life,  which  might  have  taught 
an  inexperienced  heart  to  believe  that  among  that  peo- 
ple was  to  be  found  the  wished-for  state,  where  busy 
life  proceeded  in  peaceful  tranquillity,  without  the  cares, 
the  anxieties,  the  jealousies,  the  strifes  of  more  civil- 
ized and  more  corrupt  society. 

Theodore  rode  on,  as  he  had  been  directed,  towards 
the  gate  of  the  principal  dwelling ;  but  he  was  surprised, 
and  somewhat  offended,  as  he  came  near,  by  one  of  the 
horsemen,  who  was  careering  in  the  open  space,  hurl- 
ing a  javelin  right  across  his  path  so  as  to  pass  within 
a  foot  of  his  head.  Theodore's  nerves,  however,  were 
too  strongly  strung  to  give  way  even  to  the  slightest 
appearance  of  emotion ;  and  urging  forward  his  horse 
rather  than  checking  it,  he  passed  on  without  noticing 
a  loud  and  scornful  laugh  which  burst  from  the  young 
man  who  had  cast  the  dart.  Cremera,  who  rode  a  lit- 
tle behind  his  master,  turned  and  gazed  fiercely  round, 
while  the  Hunnish  youth  and  those  who  were  sporting 
with  him  dashed  in  among  the  followers  of  Theodore, 
as  if  on  purpose  to  disturb  him,  separating  a  part  of 
them  from  the  rest.  Theodore  was  now  turning  to  re- 
monstrate ;  but  he  heard  the  chief  of  his  attendants  al- 
ready in  sharp  discussion  wath  his  fellow-countrymen ; 
and  the  first  words  that  caught  his  ear  made  him  re- 
solve to  abstain  from  even  remonstrance,  in  a  case 
which  might  add  new  causes  of  anxiety  and  circum- 
stances of  difficulty  to  his  long  and  painful  exile  among 
the  Huns. 

"  Know  you  who  I  am  1"  cried  the  youth  who  had 
hurled  the  javelin. 

"  Well !"  answered  Theodore's  attendant.  "  You  are 
Ellac,  the  son  of  the  king,  yourself  a  monarch ;  but  we 
are  here  under  the  shield  of  Attila,  where  his  son  him- 
self dare  not  strike  us ;  for  Attila  is  just,  and  kindred 
blood  shields  no  one  from  the  stroke  of  his  equity." 
Some  more  words  ensued,  and  Ellac  at  length  said, "  Is 


ATTILA.  177 

aftot  this  he  who  has  dared  my  uncle  Bleda,  and  pro- 
voked him  to  anger  ?" 

"  We  know  naught  of  that,  oh  king !"  replied  the  at- 
tendant; "all  we  know  is,  that  we  are  given  to  this 
young  leader  by  Attila  the  King,  as  true  soldiers  to  their 
chief.  We  are  commanded  and  are  willing  to  die  in  his 
defence,  and  will  guard  him  against  any  one  and  every 
one  with  our  lives." 

"  Have  ye  no  tribe  and  chieftain  of  your  own  V  de- 
manded Ellac,  scornfully.  "  Where  is  the  head  of  your 
own  race,  that  ye  have  the  base  task  of  following  a 
stranger?" 

"  The  head  of  our  race  died  upon  the  plains  of  Gaul, 
with  fifty  of  our  brethren,"  rephed  the  attendant ;  "  and 
it  is  not  a  base  task  to  follow  a  sword  which  has  drank 
deep  even  of  the  blood  of  our  own  nation." 

"  If  it  have  drank  the  blood  of  our  nation,"  replied 
Ellac,  "he  that  wields  it  should  be  slain." 

"  Such  is  not  the  will  of  the  king,"  replied  the  at- 
tendant; and  he  then  added,  "  Stop  us  not,  oh  king,  for 
\re  do  our  duty." 

The  young  chieftain  sullenly  drew  back  his  horse, 
and  turning  with  a  look  of  angry  comment  to  his  own 
followers,  he  suffered  those  of  Theodore  to  proceed. 
They  accordingly  rode  on  and  overtook  the  young 
Roman,  who  had  preceded  them  by  a  few  paces,  just 
as  he  reached  the  light  screens  of  woodwork  which 
separated  the  palace  of  Attila  from  the  open  space 
around  it. 

There  Theodore  dismounted  from  his  horse,  and  in 
a  moment  was  surrounded  by  a  number  of  those  who 
were  spending  their  idleness  under  the  shade  of  the  por- 
tico. A  mixed  and  motley  group  they  were,  compri- 
sing old  warriors,  unfit  any  longer  to  draw  the  sword, 
beautiful  girls  of  various  ages — from  that  at  which  the 
future  loveliness  bursts  forth  from  the  green  film  of 
childhood  like  the  first  opening  of  the  rose,  to  that  at 
which  charms  that  have  seen  the  fulness  of  the  summer 
day  spread  out  in  their  last  unfaded  hours  like  the 
same  rose  when  its  leaves  are  first  ready  to  fall.  Chil- 
dren, too,  were  there,  and  many  a  slave  from  every  dis- 
tant land,  with  mutes  and  dwarfs,  singers,  jesters,  and 
buffoons.* 

*  Both  the  Greek  and  Romsn  historians  strive  to  impress  their 
readers  with  the  idea  that  the  Huns  were  mere  Scythian  savages  j 


178  ATTILA. 

A  number  of  these,  as  we  have  said,  now  crowded 
round  Theodore  with  looks  of  interest  and  expectation, 
while  others,  listless  and  unheeding,  lay  quietly  in  the 
sun,  casting  their  eyes  with  idle  carelessness  upon 
the  stranger,  without  thinking  it  worth  their  while  to 
move.  Many  was  the  question  that  was  now  asked, 
and  many  was  the  curious  trait  which  struck  the  sight 
of  Theodore.  But  we  must  not  pause  to  paint  minutely 
the  life  and  manners  of  the  Huns.  That  Attila  was  on 
his  march  homeward  was  already  known  at  the  royal 
village,  and  orders  had  been  received  regarding  the 
treatment  of  the  young  stranger.  One  of  the  houses 
in  the  same  enclosure  as  that  of  the  monarch  had  been 
appointed  him  for  a  dwelling ;  and  having  taken  up  his 
abode  therein,  he  found  himself  served  and  supplied  as 
if  he  had  been  one  of  the  barbarian  king's  own  chil- 
dren. 

Although  the  scene  which  now  passed  daily  before 
his  eye  was  very  different  from  that  which  he  had  be- 
held at  the  dwelling  of  Bleda,  and  he  found  it  more 
difficult  to  enter  into  the  kindly  intimacy  of  any  of  the 
barbarian  families  than  he  had  done  there,  yet  the  same 
simple  manners  were  to  be  seen.  Large  flocks  and 
herds  were  daily  driven  out  to  pasture ;  from  every 
dwelling  poured  forth  the  drove  in  the  morning,  and 
to  every  dwelling  returned  the  well-fed  cattle  in  the 
evening,  with  him  who  had  been  their  guardian  during 
the  day  singing  his  rude  song  to  cheer  the  empty 
hours. 

The  women,  too,  whatever  their  rank  or  station 
among  the  people,  were  seen  sitting  before  their  dwel- 
lings, twirling  the  spindle  in  the  sun,  or  occupied  in 
other  domestic  cares  which  had  long  since  been  aban- 
doned by  the  polished  and  luxurious  dames  of  Rome. 

The  mixture  of  foreign  nations  with  the  Hunnish  pop- 
ulation had  indeed  produced  a  sort  of  mockery  of  the 
vices  and  luxuries  of  civilized  capitals ;  and  Theodore 
saw  that  simple  fare,  and  coarse,  unornamented  gar- 
ments were  by  no  means  universal  among  the  Huns, 

but  at  every  line  they  let  fall  something  which  impugns  this  asser- 
tion. We  find  that  gold,  gems,  silver,  tables,  various  kinds  of  drinks 
of  their  own  manufacture,  firearms  and  equipments,  jesters,  dwarfs, 
singing,  and  several  games  of  chance,  were  common  among  them  : 
and,  in  short,  that  there  was  an  extraordinary  mixture  of  civilized 
arts  with  barbarian  habits. 


ATTILA.  179 

Gold,  and  silver,  and  precious  stones  appeared  upon  the 
persons  and  in  the  dwellings  of  many,  and  even  the 
silken  vestures  of  the  East  were  seen  among  the  female 
part  of  the  inhabitants. 

For  several  days  Theodore  remained  almost  totally 
without  society ;  for,  after  the  first  movement  of  curi- 
osity, the  inhabitants  of  the  palace  took  no  further  notice 
of  him,  and  no  one  else  sought  for  his  acquaintance, 
except,  indeed,  some  of  those  Romans  w^ho  had  aban- 
doned their  country  and  assumed  the  appearance  of  the 
Huns.  Several  of  these,  it  is  true,  presented  themselves 
at  his  dwelling,  and  would  fain  have  looked  upon  him 
as  one  of  themselves  ;  but  Theodore  was  on  his  guard, 
and  he  received  their  advances  somewhat  coldly.  He 
was  ready,  indeed,  to  meet  with  kindly  friendship  any 
one  whom  the  arm  of  injustice  had  driven  from  their 
native  land,  and  who  preserved  pure  their  faith  and 
honour,  but  unwilling  to  hold  an  hour's  companionship 
with  men  who  had  been  scourged  forth  by  their  own 
vices,  or  had  betrayed  their  native  land  for  the  gratifi- 
cation of  any  passion,  whether  the  sordid  hope  of  gain, 
the  wild  thirst  of  ambition,  or  the  burning  fury  of  re- 
venge. Of  all  who  thus  came  to  him  he  was  suspi- 
cious, and  his  doubts  were  not  removed  by  their  manners  ; 
for  all  more  or  less  affected  to  graft  upon  the  polish  of 
the  Roman  the  rude  and  barbarian  fierceness  of  the 
Hun.  Though  accustomed  to  a  more  refined,  though 
perhaps  not  abetter,  state  of  society,  they  endeavoured 
to  assume  the  manners  of  the  nation  among  whom  they 
dwelt ;  and  the  mixture  thus  produced  was  both  painful 
and  disgusting  to  the  feelings  of  the  young  Roman, 
whose  character  was  too  decided  in  its  nature  ever  to 
change  by  its  contact  with  others,  and  possessed  too 
much  dignity  to  affect  manners  of  any  kind  but  those 
which  sprang  from  his  own  heart,  tutored  as  it  had  been 
from  youth  in  habits  of  graceful  ease. 

In  all  the  visits  of  this  kind  that  he  received,  and 
they  were  many,  atopic  of  conversation  soon  presented 
itself  which  acted  as  a  touchstone  upon  the  exiles. 
This  was  the  comparative  excellence  of  the  Roman 
and  barbarian  mode  of  life.  Almost  every  one  broke 
forth  on  the  first  mention  of  such  a  subject  into  wild 
and  vague  praises  of  the  simplicity,  the  freedom,  the 
purity  of  the  most  unrestrained  and  uncivilized  nation 
into  whose  arms  either  fortune  or  folly  had  driven 

I 


180  ATTILA. 

them;  and  all  the  commonplaces  against  luxury  and 
eiTeminacy  had  been  conned  and  noted  down  to  justify- 
as  a  choice  that  which  was  in  fact  a  necessity — their 
abode  among  the  Huns.  But  Theodore  thought  differ- 
ently, and  he  expressed  strongly  his  opinion. 

No  man  hated  more  efTeminacy,  no  one  more  de- 
spised sensual  luxury  ;  but  he  thought  that  refined  man- 
ners and  refined  taste  might  exist  with  virtue,  purity, 
even  simplicity  ;  and  he  thought,  also,  that  as  the  most 
precious  substances,  the  hardest  metals,  and  the  bright- 
est stones  take  the  finest  polish,  so  the  most  generous 
heart,  the  firmest  and  the  most  exalted  mind,  are  those 
most  capable  of  receiving  the  highest  degree  of  civiliza- 
tion. At  all  events,  he  felt  sure  that  no  one  who  had 
tasted  the  refinements  of  cultivated  life  could  lose  their 
taste  for  w^hat  was  graceful  and  elegant ;  and  that  if, 
from  any  hatred  of  the  vices  or  follies  which  had  crept 
into  a  decaying  empire,  they  fled  to  a  more  simple  and 
less  corrupted  state,  they  would  still  prize  highly,  and 
maintain  in  themselves  that  noble  suavity,  that  gener- 
ous urbanity,  which  springs  from  the  feelings  of  a  kind, 
a  self-possessed,  and  a  dignified  mind. 

These  opinions,  as  I  have  said,  he  did  not  scruple  to 
express  boldly  and  distinctly ;  and  he  soon  found  that 
such  notions,  together  Avith  those  he  entertained  re- 
garding patriotism  and  the  duty  of  every  man  towards 
his  country,  were  not  pleasant  to  the  ears  of  his  visiters. 
Some  slunk  away  with  feelings  of  shame,  not  altogether 
extinct  in  their  bosoms.  Some  boldly  scoffed  at  such 
prejudiced  ideas ;  and  only  one  or  two,  with  calm  ex- 
pressions of  regret,  acknovi^ledged  that  they  felt  as  he 
did,  and  only  lamented  that  injustice  and  oppression 
had  driven  them  from  the  society  in  which  they  had 
been  accustomed  to  dwell,  and  the  refined  pleasures 
which  they  were  capable  of  enjoying,  to  the  wilds  of 
Dacia  and  the  company  of  barbarians.  With  these 
Theodore  would  not  have  been  unwilling  to  associate  : 
but,  ere  he  did  so,  he  sought  to  see  more  of  them,  and 
to  hear  their  history  from  other  lips  than  their  own ; 
and,  therefore,  with  a  coldness  of  demeanour  which 
was  not  natural  to  him,  he  received  all  advances  from 
his  fellow-countrymen. 

Ellac,  the  son  of  Attila,  he  saw  no  more ;  and  he  was 
glad  to  be  spared  fresh  collision  with  one  who  was  evi- 
dently ill  disposed  towards  him,  and  who  was  so  dan- 


ATTILA.  181 

gerous  an  enemy.    Ke  strove  not  to  avoid  any  one, 
however,  but  walked  forth  alone  among  the  houses  of 
the  Huns  with  that  fearless  calmness  which  is  gener- 
ally its  own  safeguard.     Still  he  saw,  without  choosing 
to   remark  it,   that   Cremera's   apprehensions  for  his 
safety  were  greater  than  his  own ;  and  that,  though  he 
ventured  not  to  remonstrate  against  any  part  of  his 
master's  behaviour,  yet  whenever  the  young  Roman 
went  forth  on  foot  towards  the  close  of  the  day  to  en- 
joy the  calm  hour  of  evening  in  that  tranquil  meditation 
with  which  it  seems  to  sympathize,  he  caught  a  glance 
here  and  there  of  the  tall,  dusky  form  of  the  Arab  fol- 
lowing his  footsteps  with  watchful  care. 

Sometimes  the  young  Roman  would  ride  out  on  horse- 
back, followed  by  his  attendants,  to  hunt  in  the  neigh- 
bouring woods  ;  and  if  any  of  the  idler  Huns  followed 
their  troop  to  join  in  the  amusement  or  to  share  their 
game,  the  skill  and  activity  which  Theodore  had  ac- 
quired excited  their  wonder  and  admiration. 

Early  on  the  morning  of  the  seventh  day  after  his 
arrival  at  the  residence  of  Attila  he  thus  went  forth, 
accompanied  both  by  the  Alani  and  the  Huns  who  had 
been  given  to  him,  and  rode  along  by  the  banks  of 
Tibiscus  to  the  wide  deep  woods  which,  at  the  distance 
of  about  five  miles  from  the  village,  swept  up  from  the 
river,  and  covered  the  sides,  nearly  to  the  top,  of  a 
lateral  shoot  of  those  high  mountains  which  crossed  the 
country  to  the  eastward. 

He  followed  the  side  of  the  river  as  closely  as  the 
nature  of  the  ground  permitted,  even  after  he  had  en- 
tered the  woods ;  for  he  knew  that  about  that  hour  the 
stags  and  the  elks,  then  so  common  in  the  Dacian  and 
Pannonian  forests,  came  down  to  drink  at  the  larger 
streams,  seeming  to  disdain  the  bright  but  pretty  rivu- 
lets that  sparkled  down  the  sides  of  the  mountains.  He 
had  heard,  too,  that  such  was  the  case  with  the  urus,  or 
wild  bull ;  but  the  animal  was  scarce  even  in  those 
northern  solitudes,  and  he  had  not  any  personal  knowl- 
ledge  of  its  habits. 

Remarking  the  course  of  the  stream  when  first  he 
entered  the  wood,  he  ordered  his  attendants  to  spread 
out  at  some  distance  from  himself,  and  drive  the  game 
towards  the  river,  the  banks  of  which  he  himself  pro- 
posed to  follow.  Little  appeared,  however,  and  that 
of  a  kind  not  worthy  of  pursuit.     A  wolf,   indeed, 

Vol.  I.— Q 


182  ATTILA. 

crossed  his  path,  and,  casting  his  javelin  at  it,  he  strnck 
the  grim  robber  of  the  fold  down  to  the  ground ;  but, 
shaking  it  quickly  from  his  weapon,  he  passed  on,  and 
for  near  an  hour  followed  the  side  of  the  stream,  hear- 
ing from  time  to  time  the  cries  of  his  attendants,  as 
they  shouted,  both  to  give  notice  to  their  companions 
of  the  course  tliey  were  pursuing  and  to  scare  the 
game  from  the  lair. 

Mingling  other  thoughts  of  a  more  heartfelt  and  in- 
teresting kind  with  the  alternate  expectations  and  dis- 
appointments— trifling,  indeed,  but  still  exciting — of  the 
chase,  he  did  not  remark  that  after  a  time  the  voices  of 
his  followers  sounded  less  and  less  loud,  and  that  the 
river  swept  away  more  than  he  had  calculated  towards 
the  west.  Cremera,  indeed,  he  saw  from  time  to  time 
emerge  from  the  deeper  parts  of  the  wood  to  catch  a 
glance  of  him,  and  he  fancied  that  the  others  were  not 
far  distant.  But  at  length  all  the  sounds  ceased,  and 
after  some  time  he  became  aware  that  he  had  strayed 
considerably  from  the  direction  which  he  had  proposed 
to  take.  He  heeded  it  not  much,  however,  saying  to 
himself,  "  They  will  soon  rejoin  me  :  the  river  sweeps 
round  again  not  far  on." 

As  he  thus  thought,  he  heard  the  distant  cry  of  dogs ; 
and  putting  his  horse  into  a  quicker  pace,  he  hurried  on 
towards  the  spot  from  which  the  sounds  proceeded. 
They  were  faint  and  far  off,  however ;  but,  as  he  rode 
forward,  they  seemed  to  advance  upon  him,  winding 
hither  and  thither  in  the  wood ;  and  he  thought,  as  his 
practised  ear  caught  the  sounds,  "  It  must  be  an  elk 
they  are  upon;  they  cry  more  eagerly  than  on  a  stag." 

There  were  some  high  grounds  above  him,  but  cov- 
ered with  deep  wood ;  and  though,  soon  after,  Theo- 
dore could  hear  the  musical  voices  of  the  hounds  pass 
across  the  upland,  and  could  even  catch  the  rushing  and 
crashing  sound  of  some  large  beast  passing  through  the 
underwood,  he  could  neither  see  dogs  nor  game.  He 
thought,  however,  "  That  is  no  elk  I  It  does  not  bound 
like  an  elk — most  probably  a  wild  boar ;  and,  if  so,  one 
of  enormous  size." 

Then,  giving  a  hasty  glance  to  the  river,  he  exclaimed, 
"  It  turns  there :  the  brute  must  either  take  the  water, 
face  the  dogs,  or  come  back  hither  by  the  open  ground ;" 
and  urging  his  horse  as  close  as  possible  to  the  stream, 
he  rode  on  to  meet  the  animal,  whatever  it  was,  just  as 


ATTILA.  183 

it  burst  from  the  wood.  As  he  approached,  he  heard 
that  he  had  calculated  rightly  by  the  turn  which  the 
dogs  took ;  and  he  paused  that  he  might  fling  his  jave- 
lin with  a  surer  aim. 

At  that  moment,  however,  a  cry  like  that  of  a  human 
being  in  pain  or  fear  caught  his  ear,  proceeding  from 
among  the  trees  just  before  him ;  and  dashing  on  to 
give  aid  if  the  beast  were  brought  to  bay,  he  plunged  his 
horse  in  among  the  brushwood,  passed  in  a  moment  a 
narrow  slip  of  forest  that  impeded  his  sight,  and  found 
himself  in  a  small  open  space,  round  three  sides  of 
which  the  river  bent  like  a  sickle. 

One  object,  however,  in  that  space  occupied  all  his  at- 
tention, one  feeling  took  possession  of  his  heart,  and  but 
one  course  was  left  him  to  pursue.  In  the  midst,  clothed 
in  a  shaggy  mane,  with  foam  covering  its  black  nostrils 
and  fury  flashing  from  its  dark  sinister  eyes,  its  foot 
planted  on  a  hound  that  it  had  just  killed,  and  its  enor- 
mous neck  bent  and  head  drawn  back,  in  act  to  strike 
again  with  the  short  but  pointed  horns  upon  its  wide 
square  brow,  stood  the  urus  which  the  dogs  had  driven 
from  its  mountain  solitudes. 

Before  it,  prostrate  on  the  earth,  and  panting  in  the 
agonies  of  death,  lay  one  of  the  small  horses  of  the 
Huns,  with  streams  of  blood  pouring  forth  from  a  tre- 
mendous gore  in  its  side.  Fallen  with  the  fallen  horse 
lay  a  boy  of  about  twelve  years  of  age,  splendidly  appa- 
relled after  the  barbarian  fashion,  and  with  one  small 
hand  raised  and  grasping  a  sword,  he  made  a  vain  effort 
to  strike  the  fell  adversary  that  was  rushing  upon  him. 

On  one  moment  hung  life  or  death ;  and,  even  while 
his  horse  was  clearing  the  last  brushwood,  Theodore, 
with  all  the  strength  and  swiftness  of  youth  and  vigour, 
hurled  his  unerring  javelin  at  the  monster.  It  struck 
him  but  slightly,  for  the  youth's  hand  was  shaken  by 
the  spring  of  his  horse  ;  but  it  flew  so  swiftly,  that  the 
sharp  steel  cut  through  the  tough  hide  upon  his  back 
just  as  he  was  dashing  forward  to  crush  the  boy  to 
atoms.  It  shook  and  turned  him ;  and  as  the  young 
Hun  writhed  partly  on  one  side,  the  fury  of  the  animal's 
stroke  was  spent  upon  the  dying  horse.  Mad,  however, 
with  pain,  he  now  turned  upon  his  new  assailant;  but 
Theodore,  active  as  well  as  strong,  snatched  the  second 
javelin  from  his  saddle  bow,  sprang  from  his  horse, 
and  met  the  brute  as  he  rushed  upon  him. 


184  ATTILA.  * 

With  his  head  down  and  his  eyes  closed,  the  urus 
rushed  on  ;  but  Theodore,  though  knowing  his  danger, 
was  neither  fearful  nor  unprepared ;  and  when  the  ani- 
mal was  within  two  steps  of  where  he  stood,  he  darted 
on  one  side,  and  then  plunged  the  spear  into  its  back. 
The  weapon  struck  against  the  bone,  however — stopped 
— broke  short  off ;  and,  but  little  injured,  the  bull  turned 
upon  him  again. 

There  were  now  the  cries  of  coming  huntsmen,  but 
no  time  was  left  for  distant  succour  to  arrive.  On  him- 
self, on  himself  alone,  the  young  Roman  was  forced  to 
depend ;  and,  drawing  his  short  sword,  he  again  stood 
prepared  to  meet  the  assauJt  of  his  adversary.  With 
his  eyes  not  now  closed  as  before,  but  keenly  watching 
his  prey,  the  urus  again  rushed  upon  him ;  and  Theo- 
dore, knovying  that,  though  his  sword  was  sharp  and  his 
arm  was  strong,  it  was  in  vain  to  strike  at  that  bony 
head  or  that  thick  and  heavy  mane,  again  sprang  on 
one  side,  but  farther  than  before,  more  to  avoid  the  first 
rush  than  to  strike  the  animal  as  he  passed. 

The  bull,  however,  was  not  again  deceived,  but  fol- 
lowed him  like  hghtning ;  as  he  did  so,  however,  the 
coming  huntsmen  and  dogs  rushing  through  the  trees 
met  his  ferocious  eye.  He  wavered  for  a  moment  be- 
tween flight  and  vengeance — exposed,  as  he  turned,  his 
side  to  the  arm  of  the  young  Roman — and  Theodore, 
seizing  the  moment,  plunged  the  keen  blade  into  his 
chest  up  to  the  hilt,  casting  himself  forward  upon  the 
beast  with  such  force  that  they  both  fell  and  rolled  upon 
the  ground  together. 

The  weapon  had  found  the  heart  of  the  fierce  animal; 
and  after  but  one  faint  effort  to  rise,  his  head  and  hoofs 
beat  the  ground  in  the  bitter  struggle  of  the  fiery  and 
tenacious  life  parting  from  the  powerful  body,  till  with 
a  low  bellowing  groan  he  expired. 

Theodore  raised  himself  from  the  ground,  and  draw- 
ing his  sword  from  the  carcass  of  the  urus,  he  gazed 
round  upon  the  scene  in  which  the  strife  had  taken 
place.  Greatly  was  it  altered  since  he  had  last  looked 
about  him,  for  it  was  filled  with  a  multitude;  and  when 
Theodore  turned  his  eyes  towards  the  spot  where  had 
lately  lain  the  boy  he  had  just  saved  from  death,  he 
saw  him  raised  up  from  his  dead  horse,  and  clasped  in 
the  arms  of  Attila  himself. 


ATTILA.  185 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE    NEW    FRIENDS    AND    NEW    ENEMIES. 

Theodore  stood  bewildered  in  the  midst  of  the  strange 
scene  which  now  surrounded  him,  his  thoughts  all  hur- 
ried and  confused  from  the  fierce  strife  and  imminent 
peril  into  which  he  had  been  so  suddenly  hurried.  At 
first,  when  he  had  turned  to  follow  the  cry  of  the  dogs, 
he  had  forgotten — in  the  eagerness  of  the  noble  sport, 
the  primeval  pastime  of  earth's  giant  sons^that  his  owii 
attendants  were  now  unaccompanied  by  the  hounds 
with  which  he  had  been  accustomed  to  hunt  in  the  for- 
est near  Bleda's  dwelling;  and,  from  the  moment  he 
had  first  seen  that  noble-looking  boy,  to  that  in  which 
he  rose  from  the  prostrate  carcass  of  the  ferocious 
beast  that  had  so  nearly  destroyed  him,  there  had  been 
no  time  for  any  other  thoughts  but  those  connected 
with  the  fierce  combat  in  which  he  was  engaged. 

Now,  however,  as  he  looked  round,  he  divined  the 
whole,  well  knowing  the  custom  of  those  barbarian 
chiefs  to  pursue  the  chase  as  eagerly  while  marching 
along  with  hostile  armies  as  when  it  served  to  solace 
the  vacant  hours  of  peace.  That  he  had  fallen  in  with 
the  hunt  of  Attila  he  clearly  perceived ;  but  who  the 
boy  was  that  he  had  saved,  he  could  only  gather  from 
the  fond  embrace  with  which  the  dark  monarch  held 
him  in  his  powerful  arms.  Fond  and  tender,  no  one 
who  saw  it  could  doubt  what  that  embrace  really 
was  ;  and  yet  scarce  any  sign  of  emotion  could  be  dis- 
covered on  the  iron  countenance  which  so  often  led  the 
slaughter  in  the  fiercest  fields  of  barbarian  war. 

The  boy  was  talking  eagerly  and  rapidly,  and  point- 
ing to  Theodore  as  he  rose;  and  the  moment  after, 
while  the  young  Roman  drew  forth  his  sword  from  the 
side  of  the  mighty  beast  that  lay  cumbering  the  earth 
like  a  huge  gray  mound,  the  king  set  his  son  down,  and, 
after  resting  his  broad  hand  on  his  head  for  a  moment, 
strode  across  the  open  space  and  stood  by  the  side  of 
the  boy's  dehverer. 

For  an  instant  his  eyes  ran  over  the  tremendous 

Q2 


186  ATTILA.  , 

limbs  of  the  urus,  the  broad  square  head,  the  tangled 
mane,  from  amid  the  thick  coarse  hair  of  which  the 
dark  blood  was  pouring  out  in  streams,  and  upon  the 
sharp-pointed  horns,  one  of  which  had  burrowed  in  the 
earth  as  he  had  rolled  over  in  the  agonies  of  death — 
and  then  he  turned  his  look  upon  his  boy.  The  next 
instant  he  held  out  his  hand  to  Theodore,  saying,  "  Thou 
hast  saved  my  child  !  Well  and  truly  did  yon  holy  man 
declare  that  the  safety  of  myself  and  of  my  race  de- 
pended upon  him  whom  1  should  first  meet  as  I 
marched  against  the  Romans ;  and  that  the  first  act  of 
forbearance  and  mercy  which  1  showed  should  be  fol- 
lowed by  benefits  that  I  could  never  repay.  Nor  was 
that  all.  When  you  met  me  on  the  mountain,  young 
Roman,  scarce  a  week  since,  that  same  old  man,  gazing 
from  the  brink  of  the  everlasting,  and  beholding  the  fu- 
ture like  a  valley  at  his  feet,  traced  out  the  after  life  of 
this  my  youngest  son.  He  should  escape  from  mighty 
perils,  the  prophet  said,  and  be  the  last  who  should  sur- 
vive to  carry  on  my  race.  Has  he  not  now  escaped 
from  mighty  peril  by  thine  aid  ?  and  though  it  was  fore- 
doomed, deep  and  heartfelt  is  the  gratitude  which  I  owe 
thee  for  saving  the  life  of  this  my  boy  at  the  immedi- 
ate hazard  of  thine  own.  '  Attila  thanks  thee,  and  will 
keep  the  memory  of  this  deed  in  his  heart.  I  have 
called  thee  my  son,  oh  Theodore,  and  shalt  thou  not  be 
mito  me  a  son  indeed  1  Ay,  and  a  well-beloved  son  too, 
only  next  in  place  to  him  whom  thou  hast  rescued  from 
untimely  death." 

"  I  am  still  thy  debtor,  oh  Attila,"  replied  Theodore  : 
"  once  hast  thou  spared  me  when  I  intruded  on  thy 
territories  ;  twice  hast  thou  saved  my  life,  knowing  me 
to  be  a  Roman  and  an  enemy ;  and  I  have  only  res- 
cued this  fair  boy,  whom  I  would  have  saved  as  unhes- 
itatingly if  he  had  been  the  son  of  the  poorest  warrior 
in  the  Hunnish  ranks  ;"  and,  as  he  spoke,  he  held  out 
his  hand  towards  the  youth,  who  had  advanced  nearly 
to  his  father's  side,  and  who  seized  it  eagerly,  and 
clasped  it  with  a  grateful  gesture  to  his  heart. 

"  Let  mutual  benefits  bind  us  to  each  other,  my  son," 
said  Attila.  "  I  loved  thee  from  the  moment  my  eyes 
lighted  upon  thee.  Whether  it  was  a  feeling  sent  by 
the  gods  to  tell  me  that  I  should  owe  thee  much,  1  know 
not ;  but  I  loved  thee  then,  and  how  much  more  do  I 
love  thee  now!    Thou  shalt  find  that  though  those 


ATTILA.  187 

who  unjustly  oppose  the  will  of  Attila,  injure  his 
friends,  or  insult  his  people,  die  by  the  death  they  merit, 
yet  those  who  risk  their  lives  in  the  defence  of  liim  or 
his  are  not  forgotten  in  the  time  of  gratitude — but 
come  thou  with  me.  We  march  by  slow  journeys,  that 
the  host  may  diminish  as  we  cross  the  land ;  to-mor- 
row, however,  I  shall  sit  once  more  in  mine  own  seat. 
Come,  then,  with  me,  and  spend  this  night  in  our  camp ; 
to-morrow  we  will  find  another  place  of  repose." 

Thus  saying,  the  monarch  dismounted  ;  a  fresh  horse 
was  soon  found  for  the  boy  Ernac ;  and  Theodore  fol- 
lowed by  the  side  of  the  youth,  w^ho,  talking  to  him 
eagerly  in  the  Hunnish  tongue,  thanked  him  over  and 
over  again  with  simple  sincerity  for  the  service  which 
had  been  rendered  to  him.  There  was  something 
noble  and  frank  in  the  manners  of  the  boy ;  and,  as 
they  went,  he  told  his  deliverer  how  the  whole  of  that 
day's  adventure  had  come  about ;  how  he  had  gone 
forth  from  the  palace  four  or  five  days  before  to  meet 
his  father  on  his  march  homeward ;  and  how,  in  that 
day's  hunting,  he  had  been  stationed  near  the  river's  brink 
to  watch  for  the  smaller  game  as  it  was  driven  down 
to  the  water ;  and  then,  when  the  urus  appeared,  how 
he  had  fancied  he  would  please  Attila  by  killing  such  a 
gigantic  beast  as  that.  He  dwelt,  too,  on  all  he  felt 
when  he  found  his  horse  slain  and  himself  at  the  mercy 
of  the  enraged  monster,  and  Theodore  experienced  a 
double  pride  and  pleasure  in  having  saved  so  promising 
a  child. 

From  time  to  time,  as  they  rode  on,  the  young  Ro- 
man cast  his  eyes  around,  and  listened  somewhat  anx- 
iously for  the  coming  of  his  own  attendants,  fearing 
that  they  might  seek  for  him  long  in  those  dark  woods. 
Cremera,  however,  he  had  seen  among  those  who  stood 
around  when  he  rose  from  his  contest  with  the  wild 
bull ;  and  he  doubted  not  that  the  others  would  soon 
gain  some  knowledge  of  the  path  he  had  taken  from 
those  who  had  been  left  to  bring  away  the  body  of  his 
huge  antagonist,  as  a  trophy  of  the  sylvan  war. 

He  mentioned  that  he  had  missed  his  attendants, 
however,  to  his  young  companion  Ernac,  who  laughed 
with  boyish  glee  at  his  apprehensions,  adding,  "  Oh, 
they  will  find  you  ere  an  hour  be  over.  We  Huns 
have  ways  of  tracing  our  way  through  the  thickest 
forests  that  you  Romans  do  not  understand ;"  and  the 


188  ATTILA. 

proud  emphasis  which  a  more  boy  laid  upon  "  We 
Huns,"  showed  Theodore  how  strong  had  become  the 
national  pride  of  the  people  under  the  victorious  reign 
of  Altila,  though  he  could  not  but  feel  painfully,  at  the 
same  time,  the  deep  contempt  which  had  fallen  upon 
the  once  tremendous  name  of  Rome.  Ernac's  antici- 
pations, however,  in  regard  to  the  attendants,  did  not 
prove  false ;  for  as  the  hunting  train  of  the  dark  mon- 
arch rode  through  on  the  wilds,  every  now  and  then 
Theodore  perceived  the  person  of  one  of  his  own  fol- 
lowers appearing  between  the  trees,  and  taking  their 
place  among  the  rest.  Attila  proceeded  slowly,  and,  as 
he  rode  on,  spoke  to  no  one,  except  when  he  turned, 
and  with  an  unwonted  smile  of  fond,  paternal  love,  ad- 
dressed a  few  words  to  his  rescued  boy. 

At  length,  towards  evening,  they  emerged  from  the 
forest ;  and  entering  one  of  the  plains  which  here  and 
there  diversified  the  country,  they  approached  once 
more  the  wild  and  extraordinary  scene  presented  by  a 
Hunnish  camp.  At  a  considerable  distance  Theodore 
could  see  it  as  it  lay  upon  the  slope  of  one  of  the  up- 
lands, with  the  dusky  millions  moving  about  in  their 
various  occupations,  with  a  bustling,  whirling  activity, 
like  ants  in  one  of  the  large  ant-hills  of  that  very  land. 
As  they  approached  nearer  the  different  masses  seemed 
to  separate  ;  and  the  camp  assumed  the  same  appear- 
ance— with  its  fires  and  circles  of  wagons — that  it 
had  presented  when  Theodore  before  beheld  it  in  the 
Roman  territory. 

Approaching  the  central  circle  which  formed  the 
abode  of  Attila,  the  monarch  turned  towards  the  young 
Roman,  saying,  "  You  follow  me !"  and  passing  on,  he 
led  the  way  within  the  boundary. 

The  space  enclosed  for  the  monarch's  own  dwelling 
was  large,  and  filled  with  a  number  of  Huns,  busy  in 
various  preparations.  A  change,  however,  seemed  to 
have  come  over  the  tastes  of  Attila  since  his  success- 
ful invasion  of  the  Roman  territory,  for  many  more  of 
the  external  marks  of  dignity  of  station  surrounded  his 
abode.  In  the  midst  of  the  circle,  too,  stood  a  mag- 
nificent tent,  which  had  evidently  once  belonged  to  one 
of  the  luxurious  generals  of  the  Eastern  empire,  but 
which  was  now  surmounted  by  the  same  black  eagle 
that  ornamented  the  standards  of  the  Huns.  Thither 
Attila  himself  proceeded,  while  all  made  way  for  his 


fc 


ATTILA.  189 

footsteps  with  looks  of  awe  and  respect,  not  servile, 
not  timid,  but  seeming  only  the  expression  of  heartfelt 
reverence  for  the  daring  courage,  ihe  powerful  genius, 
the  mighty  mind,  which  nature  had  implanted  in  the 
breast  of  him  whom  the  accident  of  birth  had  made  a 
king. 

Theodore  paused,  and  looked  to  the  boy  Ernac,  who  , 
seemed  to  understand  his  doubts  at  once,  and  replied  to 
them  by  saying,  "Yes,  stay  you  here,  and  make  your 
people  get  you  provisions !  I  will  go  in  to  my  father, 
and  see  what  is  his  will  with  regard  to  you ;  but  I 
must  wait  till  he  speaks  to  me,  for  I  dare  not  address 
him  first." 

The  young  Roman  was  by  this  time  sufficiently  ac- 
customed to  the  Huns  to  make  himself  at  home  among 
them  without  uneasiness  or  restraint ;  and  proceeding 
nearly  to  the  verge  of  the  circle,  he  lay  down  upon  the 
ground,  while  the  Huns  who  accompanied  him,  and  who 
had  by  tliis  time  separated  themselves  from  the  follow- 
ers of  the  monarch,  lighted  a  fire,  and  sought  for  provis- 
ions in  the  camp. 

He  gave  himself  up  to  a  fit  of  musing,  regarding  the 
events  of  the  day  and  the  difference  of  his  own  feelings 
now,  compared  with  what  they  had  been  but  a  few 
months  before.  At  that  time,  when  he  at  first  met  At- 
tila — though  he  had  experienced  on  beholding  him,  even 
before  he  was  aware  of  his  name  and  station,  sensations 
which  he  could  not  define — he  had  regarded  the  mon- 
arch of  the  Huns  but  as  the  talented  chief  of  numerous 
barbarian  hordes.  Now  he  felt  hourly  creeping  over 
him  more  and  more  of  that  same  kind  of  awe  with  which 
the  various  nations  under  his  command  seemed  uni- 
formly to  regard  their  chief;  and  Theodore  tried  to  in- 
vestigate in  what  consisted  that  peculiar  power  which 
was  producing  such  an  impression,  gaining  such  an  as- 
cendency over  a  mind  not  unconscious  of  vigour,  activi- 
ty, and  brightness.  He  revolved  the  words,  the  conduct 
of  Attila  in  every  respect,  and  he  could  attribute  this 
effect  to  nothing,  were  it  not  to  the  combination  of 
many  great  and  powerful  qualities,  seldom  united  in  one 
man,  but,  as  it  were,  all  cemented  together  in  the  mind 
of  Attila  by  a  certain  calm,  deliberate  sternness,  which 
never  left  him  except  in  the  fiercest  fury  of  the  sangui- 
nary strife.  His  every  thought  seemed  stern ;  and  the 
unshaken  and  extraordinary  calmness  which  he  displayed 


190  ATTILA. 

on  all  occasions  appeared  to  give  liim  instant  and  per- 
fect command  over  all  the  powerful  talents  which  he 
inherited.  'I'here  could  l)(^  no  such  thing  as  doubt  or 
hesitation  in  his  nature;  and  to  that  godlike  certainty  of 
])urpos('  Tlicodore  attributed  the  power  over  the  minds 
of  others  which  he  so  singularly  ])ossessed. 

While  he  thus  lay  musing,  forgetful  of  the  scene 
around  him,  a  sudden  step  woke  him  from  his  rcvery; 
and  the  next  nunncMit  his  former  antagonist,  Ardaric, 
kmg  of  the  (Jepida',  cast  his  huge  hulk  down  uj)on  the 
ground  beside  him.  "  VV(dl,  my  fri(;nd,"  he  said,  look- 
ing upon  the  countenance  of  Th(M)dore,  and  ruiming  his 
<'ye  over  the  limbs  of  the  youth,  manly  and  strong  as 
they  were,  but  still  infmitely  inferior  in  muscular  strength 
to  his  own,  "  well,  my  friend,  when  last  we  met  it  was 
in  deadly  strife;  and  now,  in  cahn  friendship,  after  our 
contest  is  over.  I  love  the  brave,  whether  they  be  ene- 
mies or  not :  and  when  tiie  boy  lOrnac,  who  is  not  un- 
like thee  in  face  and  mamun-s,  told  me  thou  wert  here,  I 
resolved  to  come  and  see  thee,  that  I  might  discov("r,  if 
1  (M)uld,  how  one  who  seemed  to  me  but  a  stripling  could 
give  me  uwrv.  trouble  in  the  (■;oml)at  than  a  whole  co- 
hort of  his  countrymen.  1  cannot  understand  it  even 
now,  for  thou  art  very  young,  and  certainly  not  yet  in 
strength  mine  equal.  Thou  art  more  active,  perhaps  ; 
but  that  will  not  do  everything.  However,  let  us  not 
talk  of  strife!  I  come  to  eat  and  drink  with  thee,  that 
the  bond  of  hospitable  union  may  be  strong  between 
us." 

"  Gladly  will  I  make  it  so,  noble  Ardaric,"  replied 
Theodore.  "  The  generous  and  noble  soon  become 
friends  whenever  they  cease  to  be  enemies.  You 
spared  my  life  when  you  might  have  taken  it,  and  I 
will  love  you  not  a  bit  the  less  because  you  vanquished 
me." 

"  I  spared  you  not,  good  youth,  for  your  own  sake," 
replied  Ardaric,  frankly  ;  "  I  spared  you  for  the  sake  of 
Attila,  my  friend.  I  would  have  slain  you  at  the  next 
blow  liad  it  not  been  for  him ;  for  at  that  moment  my 
blood  was  heated.  You  had,  with  your  own  hand,  killed 
three  of  my  people,  and  1  had  not  time  nor  coolness  to 
think,  Just  then,  that  you  were  a  brave  youth,  and  a 
noble  si)irit,  and  that  it  were  a  pity  to  cut  you  oiY  so 
soon.  1  may  have  thought  so  since  ;  and  from  my  heart 
I  forgive  you  for  tliiiuiing  our  ranks  of  two  or  three  of 


\ 


ATTILA.  191 


those  startled  foxes,  who  fled  before  yon  wlicii  3'ou 
burst  iiniojii;  th(MU  hs  if  they  thought  you  must  bo  some 
evil  demou,  to  dare,  vvitii  but  two  comrades,  to  attack 
a  wliole  tribe." 

"  You  held  as  prisoners,  noble  Ardaric,"  rephed  The- 
odore, "those  whom  I  valued  far  more  than  hie  itself; 
and  my  only  caleuhition  was  how  Umg  I  could  bar  the 
way  ae^ainst  your  warriors,  vviiile  those  1  sought  to  save 
effected  tiicir  escape." 

"  I  thought  so,"  rejoined  the  King  of  the  Gepida?,  "  I 
thought  so  :  and  now  I  hear  that  your  mother  and  that 
fair  girl — who  is  not  your  sister — are  among  your  kins- 
men of  the  Alani.     Why  go  you  not  to  see  them  ?" 

"  Because,"  replied  Theodore,  "  I  have  promised  to 
stay  with  Atlila  for  full  seven  years." 

"  Oh,  he  will  give  you  leave  to  go,"  replied  Ardaric. 
*'  Use  him  but  nobly,  and  Attila  is  ever  kind  and  gener- 
ous. He  will  give  you  leave  to  go.  When  first  he 
speaks  to  you,  lead  you  the  conversation  to  your  wislies; 
and  besides,"  added  the  chief,  with  a  grave  and  warning 
look,  "  I  think  it  may  be  better  for  you  to  be  absent  from 
this  land  for  a  brief  space,  Bleda,  the  brother  of  the 
monarch,  loves  you  not.  He  is  ambitious ;  and  men 
scruple  not  to  say,  among  the  leaders  of  nations  who 
obey  and  accompany  the  great  king,  that  his  hatred  to- 
wards you  proceeds  from  some  idle  prophecy  which 
combines  the  safety  of  Attila  with  thine.  I  say  not 
that  he  would  slay  his  brother  ;  but  he  would  little 
scruple,  men  affirm,  to  take  away  the  life  of  one  whose 
existence  was  unportant  to  the  monarch's  safety.  I 
believe  not  in  sucli  j)rophecies,"  added  Ardaric,  after  a 
pause  of  thought — "  1  believe  not  in  such  prophecies, 
but  Attila,  and  Bleda,  and  many  others  do.  They  think 
that  a  man's  destiny  is  fixed  and  known  long  before  his 
birth  ;  that  every  little  act  whicli  he  {)erfornis  is  but  one 
part  of  a  great  necessity  ;  and  that,  such  being  the  case, 
the  gods  give  intimation  of  what  lliey  have  already  de- 
termined to  certain  men  peculiarly  chosen  for  that  ])ur- 
pose.  I  believe,  on  the  contrary,  that  everything  takes 
place  by  accident ;  and  that,  if  tiie  gods  interfere  at  all 
with  what  we  do,  it  is  but  to  drive  us  on  again  uj)on  our 
way,  as  a  herd  does  to  a  stray  bull  that  wanders  from 
the  drove.  1  put  no  faith  in  sucii  propliecies ;  and  I  see 
that  even  those  who  do  strive  as  much  to  have  their 
own  way  against  destiny  as  those  who  think  that  there 


192  ATTILA. 

is  no  such  thing.  Now  Bloda  would  take  your  head 
to-morrow,  in  order  to  put  his  brother's  fate  out  of  joint; 
and  Ellac,  they  say,  has  no  great  love  for  you,  though 
he  be  Attila's  son.  But  his  hatred  proceeds  merely 
from  overbearing  pride.  He  loves  his  father,  and  would 
not  injure  him ;  but  he  likes  not  that  Attila  should  fa- 
vour or  promote  any  one  but  himself." 

"  I  will  take  care  to  give  him  no  offence,"  replied 
Theodore.  "  I  seek  no  promotion  at  Attila's  hands,  be- 
cause, as  a  Roman,  I  can  receive  none.  His  love,  I 
beheve,  I  already  possess ;  but  Ellac  will  not  envy  me 
that,  when  he  finds  that  it  is  followed  by  no  benefits 
demanded  or  conferred." 

"  It  is  therefore,  I  say,"  answered  Ardaric,  "  that  it 
would  be  well  for  you  to  be  absent  from  this  land  for  a 
short  space.  Bleda's  ambition  will  not  let  him  rest, 
though  Attila  thinks  that  he  has  sated  him  with  honours 
and  with  spoil.  But  the  grave,  and  ambition,  and  ava- 
rice are  insatiable.  Bleda's  ambition  will  not  let  him 
rest,  I  say;  and  these  things  will  come  to  an  end  ere 
many  months  be  over !  But  here  come  thine  attend- 
ants and  mine,  loaded  with  food  far  more  than  we  need, 
yet  let  us  partake." 

There  was  something  so  frank  and  noble  in  the  bear- 
ing of  Ardaric,  that  Theodore  was  not  unwilhng  to  pos- 
sess his  friendship  ;  but  scarcely  had  they  tasted  the 
meal  placed  before  them,  when  a  messenger  from  At- 
tila called  the  young  Ronmn  to  his  presence.  Without 
delay,  he  followed  the  Hun  to  the  tent  of  the  monarch, 
whom  he  found  with  Ernac,  his  youngest  son,  alone. 

Attila  was  seated  on  a  rude  bench,  and  clothed  in  the 
simplest  garments  of  his  race ;  but  yet  there  was  still 
that  indescribable  calm  dignity,  which,  perhaps,  had 
greater  and  more  extraordinary  effect  from  the  harsh- 
ness of  his  features  and  the  want  of  accurate  propor- 
tion in  his  limbs.  He  greeted  Theodore  kindly,  and 
made  him  sit  down  beside  him ;  and  once  more  touch- 
ing upon  the  events  of  the  morning,  he  spoke  of  the 
skill  and  dexterity,  as  well  as  strength  and  courage, 
which  were  required  in  hunting  the  wild  bull,  saying 
that  few  but  the  most  powerful  and  the  most  daring  of 
their  own  practised  hunters  were  at  all  competent  to 
meet  that  ferocious  beast  when  brought  to  bay.  He 
asked  where  Theodore  had  learned  his  skill  in  the  chase ; 
and  the  youth's  answer,  informing  him  how  long  he  had 


ATTILA.  193 

remained  with  the  family  of  his  brother  Bleda,  threw 
the  monarch  into  a  fit  of  musing. 

"  Then  thou  hast  never  quitted  the  territory  of  the 
Huns  since  thou  didst  first  enter  it  V  demanded  At- 
tila. 

"  Never,  oh  king,"  rephed  the  young  Roman.  "  I 
phghted  my  word  to  thee  that  I  would  not." 

"  Not  in  a  direct  manner,"  answered  Attila  ;  "and  I 
thought  that  strong  temptation  might  have  led  thee  to 
the  land  of  the  Alani.  I  would  not  inquire  :  it  suificed 
me  that  thou  hadst  returned." 

"  My  word,  oh  king,"  answered  Theodore,  "  whether 
directly  or  indirectly  given,  is  never  violated.  That 
which  I  have  knowingly  implied,  that  will  I  execute,  as 
willingly  and  punctually  as  if  I  had  sworn  to  perform  it. 
Many  a  time  did  I  inquire  for  tidings  from  the  land  of 
the  Alani ;  but  though  I  gained  none,  I  never  dreamed  of 
going.  I  would  not  even  write,  though  I  thought  once 
of  doing  so,  and  sending  it  by  one  of  those  who  followed 
me." 

"  And  why  not  write?"  demanded  Attila. 

"  Because,"  replied  Theodore,  "  coming  as  I  did,  a 
stranger  to  thy  land,  and  seeing,  as  I  did  see,  that  it 
was  left  without  defence,  that  there  were  few  but  old 
men,  or  women,  or  children  remaining  in  the  country — 
for  I  had  not  yet  come  on  hither.  Seeing  all  this,  I 
would  not,  even  by  sending  a  messenger  from  thy  ter- 
ritories to  a  nation  which  has  daily  communication  with 
the  Gauls,  give  thee  just  cause  to  say  that  thou  hadst 
trusted  me,  and  I  had  betrayed  thy  undefended  country 
to  iEtius  and  his  legions." 

"Thou  prt  wise  and  honest,"  rejoined  Attila  ;  "  and 
thine  honesty  shall  win  full  reliance.  Hast  thou  never 
longed  to  see  those  once  more  whom  thou  didst  part 
from  so  sadly  between  the  Margus  and  the  Danube  V 

"  Have  I  longed  V  exclaimed  Theodore.  "  Oh  king ! 
many  and  many  has  been  the  night  that,  after  the  hard- 
est day's  hunting,  I  have  passed  without  the  soft  finger 
of  sleep  touching  mine  eyehds,  thinking  deeply  of  those 
dear  friends  of  mine  early  youth,  and  thirsting  to  be- 
hold them  again,  as  the  weary  traveller  in  the  desert 
thirsts  for  a  draught  of  water  from  the  well-remem- 
bered fountain  in  his  own  domestic  hall.  It  has  been 
my  dream  by  night,  when  slumber  has  shut  out  the 
world's  realities.     It  has  been  my  dream  by  day,  when 

Vol.  I.— R 


194  ATTILA. 

thought  has  wandered  on  from  objects  present  to  a 
world  of  her  own,  with  hope  and  imagination  for  her 
guides.  Oh,  how  I  have  longed  to  see  them  once  again  !" 
and,  clasping  his  hands  together,  the  youth  fixed  his 
eyes  upon  the  ground,  and  seemed  to  plunge  into  the 
visions  of  happiness  which  his  words  called  up. 

"  Thou  shall  go,"  said  Attila,  "  and  taste  the  joy  for 
which  thou  hast  pined.  Yet  rest  with  me  two  days,  in 
order  that  my  brother  Bleda  may  betake  himself  to  his 
own  abode,  and  leave  the  path  open  to  thee  without 
danger.  Not  that  I  think  he  would  hurt  thee  now  :  he 
is  sated  with  plunder  and  with  conquest.  Nevertheless, 
it  were  as  well  for  thee  to  wait ;  for  though  he  left  the 
camp  this  morning  to  bend  his  steps  homeward,  yet  he 
goes  but  slowly,  and  his  followers  are  not  safe.  Still 
thou  shalt  go  after  two  days  are  at  an  end.  Go,  Ernac, 
my  son,  and  learn  from  Onegisus  if  any  of  the  followers 
of  thine  uncle  Bleda  are  still  in  the  camp." 

The  boy  departed  without  a  word,  and  Theodore  re- 
mained with  Attila,  who  proceeded  to  fix  the  time  within 
which  he  bound  Theodore  to  limit  his  absence.  "  The 
full  moon  will  see  thy  departure,"  he  said,  "  and  she 
shall  once  fill  up  her  crescent  during  thine  absence  ;  but 
ere  the  second  time  of  her  fulness  thou  shalt  return,  or 
thou  art  false  to  Attila.  Wert  thou  to  stay  longer,  the 
snows  would  impede  thy  return ;  and  in  the  long  even- 
ings of  the  winter  I  would  have  thee  here,  for  I  might 
seek  to  hold  discourse  with  thee  upon  the  state  and 
changes  of  thy  native  land.  Thou  art  one  who,  having 
guarded  his  honesty  in  dishonest  times  and  amid  dis- 
honest people,  deserve  that  thy  words  should  find  at- 
tention." 

Almost  as  he  spoke,  his  son  Ernac  returned,  saying, 
"  Bleda  is  gone,  my  father,  and  all  his  followers,  ex- 
cept his  household  slaves,  who  follow  by  daybreak  in 
the  morning,  with  Zercon  his  black  jester.  I  saw  the 
foul  slave  myself;  and  he  said  his  master  had  gone 
away  so  quickly,  because,  having  taken  so  much  plun- 
der from  those  who  were  weaker  than  himself,  he 
feared  to  be  left  with  those  who  were  stronger,  lest 
they  should  begin  the  game  again." 

"  Thou  saidst  nothing  of  this  youth's  journey,  I  trust," 
said  Attila. 

"  Nothing,"   rephed  the  boy.     "  But  when   Zercon 


ATTILA.  195 

asked  me  if  the  Roman  youth  were  still  here,  I  an- 
swered yes,  but  that  he  would  not  be  here  long." 

"Unwisely  answered,  my  son,"  said  Attila;  "but  it 
matters  not ;  I  will  send  those  with  him  who  can  pro- 
tect liim.  Thou  shalt  lead  back  a  troop  of  the  Alani  to 
their  own  land,"  he  continued,  turning  to  Theodore ; 
"  and  in  the  meanwhile  keep  near  my  person.  Take 
thy  place  beside  Edicon  as  we  march  to-morrow,  and 
now  sleep  you  well.  Ernac,  w^here  is  thine  eldest 
brother  1  Has  he  left  the  camp  already,  after  having 
so  lately  joined  it  V 

Theodore  was  departing  as  the  monarch  spoke  ;  but, 
ere  he  had  left  the  tent,  he  had  heard  the  boy's  re- 
ply. "  No,  my  father,"  answered  Ernac  ;  "  he  has 
gone  a  short  way  on  the  road  with  my  uncle  Bleda." 

A  shght  shade  came  over  Attila's  brow ;  but  Theo- 
dore was  not  sorry  to  hear  that  two  men,  who  were  cer- 
tainly his  enemies,  wera  absent  for  a  time  from  the 
camp  ;  and  rejoining  his  own  followers,  he  lay  down  to 
sleep  in  peace,  followed  by  the  happy  hope  of  soon 
seeing  again  those  whom  he  loved  best  on  earth. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

THE    BITTER   WRONG. 

In  the  audience  hall  of  the  rustic  palace  of  Attila,  to- 
wards the  middle  of  the  subsequent  day,  were  assem- 
bled the  chiefs  of  all  the  different  nations  he  com- 
manded ;  and  at  once  strange  and  brilliant  v/as  the  dis- 
play of  wild,  but  rich  and  picturesque  attire  which  there 
presented  itself.  The  gold  and  silver  of  conquered  na- 
tions, the  trinkets  and  precious  stones  of  many  a  plun- 
dered palace,  were  mingled  with  the  shining  steel  and 
rich  furs  of  the  conquerors  ;  and  scarcely  could  the  lux- 
urious courts  of  those  famed  Eastern  monarchs,  whose 
effeminate  splendour  had  become  a  by-word  in  the 
world,  exceed  in  the  blaze  of  gems  and  gold  the  hall  of 
the  dark  monarch  of  the  Huns.  But  in  the  midst  of  all, 
and  distinguished  from  all  by  the  perfect  simplicity  of 
his  garb,  sat  Attila  himself,  with  his  large  hand  resting 


196  ATTILA. 

on  the  iron  hilt  of  his  broad  heavy  sword.  Kings  of  a 
hundred  different  nations  stood  around,  gazing  with  awe 
and  veneration  upon  that  dark  plain  man,  and  acknowl- 
edging in  every  look  and  gesture  the  mighty  influence 
of  superior  intellect.  Beside  these,  on  either  hand, 
were  placed  the  many  sons  and  the  favourite  friends  of 
the  monarch ;  among  the  last  appeared  Onegisus,  Edi- 
con,  and  Theodore  ;  and  a  number  of  slaves  and  attend- 
ants, covered  with  barbarian  ornaments,  filled  up  the 
rest  of  the  wide  space. 

What  had  passed  before  needs  not  description  ;  but  at 
the  moment  we  now  speak  of  a  messenger  from  the 
weak  Theodosius  w^as  brought  into  the  presence  of  the 
king,  with  the  aspect  of  a  trembling  slave  approaching 
an  offended  master.  Attila  gazed  upon  him  sternly 
as  he  came  near ;  and  Theodore  felt  the  indignant  blood 
rush  up  into  his  cheeks  as  he  beheld  the  degradation 
of  his  country. 

"  Art  thou  of  what  thy  nation  calls  of  patrician  rank  V 
demanded  A  ttila,  when  the  ambassador,  with  his  fore- 
head almost  bending  to  the  ground,  had  approached 
within  two  steps  of  the  monarch. 

''  Alas,  no,"  he  answered ;  "  I  am  but  the  humblest 
slave  of  Attila  the  King." 

"  If  thou  art  my  slave,  thou  art  happier  than  I  be- 
lieved thee  to  be,"  replied  Attila;  "  for  to  be  the  slave  of 
a  slave  is  a  humbler  rank  than  any  that  we  know  on 
this  side  of  the  Danube.  Yet  such  thou  art,  if  thou  art  the 
servant  of  Theodosius,  How  dares  he,"  continued  the 
king,  fixing  his  keen  black  eyes  fiercely  upon  him, 
"  how  dares  he  to  send  any  but  the  noblest  in  his  land  to 
treat  with  him  who  sets  his  foot  upon  his  neck  ?  'Tis 
well  for  thee  that  thou  art  but  a  servant,  and  that  there- 
fore we  pardon  thee,  otherwise  hadst  thou  died  the 
death  for  daring  to  present  thyself  before  me.  But 
now  get  thee  gone  !  Yet  stay !  Edicon,  we  will  that 
thou  shouldst  accompany  him  back  to  the  vicious  city  of 
Theodosius,  the  womanly  king  of  an  effeminate  nation. 
Thou  shalt  go  into  his  presence  and  say  unto  him, '  How 
is  it  that  thou  hast  been  so  insolent  as  to  send  any  of 
blood  less  noble  than  thine  own,  even  to  hck  the  dust 
beneath  the  feet  of  Attila  "?  As  thou  hast  so  done,  thou 
shalt  be  exiled  again  by  the  same  hand  that  has  smit- 
ten thee;  for  Attila   the  King,  thy  master  and  mine, 


ATTILA.  197 

bids  thee  prepare  a  place  for  him.'  Thus  shalt  thou 
speak — in  these  words  and  no  others  1" 

"  Oh  king  !  I  will  obey  thee  to  a  word,"  replied  Edi- 
con.     "  When  wilt  thou  that  I  set  out  V 

"  Ere  the  earth  be  three  days  older,"  answered  Attila : 
*'  take  that  Roman  slave  from  my  presence  ;  to  see  him 
offends  mine  eye.  Now,  what  tidings  from  my  brother 
Bleda  ?"  he  continued,  turning  to  a  warrior  who  stood 
near,  dressed  in  glittering  apparel. 

"  He  greets  thee  well,  oh  king !  and  bids  me  tell  thee 
that,  after  resting  in  his  own  dwelling  for  a  space,  he 
will  lead  his  warriors  towards  the  banks  of  the  Aluta, 
if  thou  dost  not  need  his  services  against  thine  ene- 
mies." 

Attila  turned  his  eyes  towards  Ardaric,  who  cast  his 
down,  and  smoothed  back  the  beard  from  his  upper  lip. 

"  Fortune  attend  him,"  said  the  monarch  ;  "and  thou 
mayst  tell  him,  my  friend,  that  as  he  Avill  be  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  revolted  Getae,  he  had  better,  if 
his  time  permit,  reduce  them  to  a  wise  and  bloodless 
submission,  otherwise  Attila  must  march  against  them 
himself,  and  this  hand  strikes  but  once.  Bid  good  for- 
tune attend  him,  and  wisdom  guide  him  in  all  his  ac- 
tions !" 

Attila  placed  a  peculiar  emphasis  on  his  words, 
but  his  countenance  underwent  no  variation.  Such, 
however,  was  not  the  case  with  the  chiefs  who  stood 
around,  on  the  brows  of  many  of  wiiom  Theodore  had 
remarked  a  cloud  gather  at  the  announcement  of  Ble- 
da's  purposes ;  and  they  now  heard  the  reply  of  their 
great  leader  with  a  grim  but  not  insignificant  smile. 
The  young  Roman  could  not,  it  is  true,  divine  the  secret 
causes  of  all  that  he  saw ;  but  the  conversation  of  Ar- 
daric on  the  preceding  evening  led  him  to  believe  that 
Bleda  was  hurrying  on  his  hopeless  schemes  of  ambi- 
tion, and  that  he  would  soon  be  plunged  into  open  con- 
tention with  his  far  more  powerful  brother.  With  all 
the  feelings  of  a  Roman  yet  strong  within  him,  Theo- 
dore could  hardly  regret  the  prospect  of  a  struggle 
which  might  divide  and  occupy  the  enemies  of  his  na- 
tive country  ;  but  still  he  felt  a  degree  of  sorrowful  re- 
gret that  all  the  high  and  noble  qualities  of  the  barbari- 
an king  should  not  have  been  enough  to  win  the  love 
or  overawe  the  ambition  of  his  inferior  brother. 

When  the  messenger  of  Bleda  had  departed,  Theo- 

R  2 


198  ATTILA. 

dore  himself  was  called  before  the  king.  The  object 
of  Attila  was  but  to  give  hiin  permission  to  begin  his 
journey  on  tlie  following  morning;  but  as  this  was  the 
first  time  that  the  young  Roman,  whose  undaunted  bear- 
ing had  busied  the  tongue  of  rumour  in  the  camp,  had 
appeared  before  the  monarch  in  the  presence  of  the 
Hunnish  chiefs,  many  an  eye  was  turned  to  watch  his 
demeanour,  some  of  the  leaders  looking  upon  him  with 
jealousy,  as  having  suddenly  started  into  a  place  in  At- 
tila's  favour,  some  gazing  with  ready  admiration  upon 
one  who  had  so  early  obtained  that  renown  which  is 
dear  to  every  noble  heart. 

Whatever  might  be  the  feelings  with  which  Theodore 
approached  the  powerful  chief  on  whom  his  fate  so  en- 
tirely depended,  he  w^ould  not  for  an  empire  have  shown 
before  the  eyes  of  the  barbarians  the  slightest  sign  of 
fear  or  awe.  Grave  and  respectful  his  demeanour  cer- 
tainly was  ;  but  when  he  had  advanced  before  the  seat 
of  Attila,  and  bowed  his  head  as  a  token  of  reverence 
due  to  his  power  and  station,  he  raised  his  eyes  full  to 
the  dusky  countenance  of  him  who  spoke,  and  endured 
the  gaze  of  those  eyes  before  which  so  many  mighty 
quailed,  without  withdrawing  his  own.  When  the  mon- 
arch had  concluded  his  commands,  Theodore  again 
bowed  his  head  and  withdrew;  and  though,  as  he  passed, 
he  heard  Ellac,  the  eldest  son  of  Attila,  who  had  by  this 
time  returned,  say  something  concerning  "  the  crafty 
Roman,''''  he  snlTered  not  the  insulting  w^ord  to  disturb 
the  joy  which  his  approaching  jonrney  already  bestow^ed. 

Hope,  like  a  kind  parent,  reaches  up  the  cliff  and 
gathers  for  us  the  flowers  long  ere  our  own  slow  child- 
ish efforts  can  attain  them ;  and  Theodore  was  already 
revelling  in  joys  w^hich  were  yet  afar  in  that  vague  un- 
certain future.  He  spent  the  day  in  happiness ;  and 
after  a  night  given  up  to  waking  dreams,  far  brighter 
than  even  the  fair  magician,  Fanc}^,  could  have  called 
up  in  the  phantasmagoria  of  sleep,  he  rose  with  the  first 
gray  streak  of  dawn,  and  set  out  to  realize  the  visions. 

It  was  a  dull  and  heavy  morning,  with  the  w^hite  veil 
of  clouds  rolled  round  the  summits  of  the  distant  moun- 
tains, and  flying  showers  passing  frequently  over  the 
plains ;  but  as  the  young  Roman  proceeded  at  the  head 
of  near  two  hundred  of  the  Alan  horsemen,  whom  Attila, 
on  the  pretence  of  sending  them  to  their  own  homes, 
had  given  him  in  fact  as  a  guard,  his  heart  was  too  light 


ATTILA.  199 

and  joyful  to  feel  or  know  that  the  brow  of  nature  was 
overcast.  His  eye  might  roll  over  the  mountains 
plunged  in  mists  ;  or  over  the  forests,  where  the  patter- 
ing rain  was  seen  falling  amid  the  autumnal  leaves ;  or 
over  the  plain  and  along  the  meadows,  where  a  hazy 
whiteness  rested  a  few  feet  above  the  general  level ;  but 
the  mind's  eye  was  in  other  lands  and  on  other  scenes ; 
and,  for  the  time,  even  his  corporeal  faculties  seemed  to 
correspond  with  the  mental  vision  alone.  It  is  scarcely 
too  much  to  say  that  he  knew  not  the  morning  was  not 
fine. 

Following  on  the  banks  of  the  Tibiscus  for  a  long 
v/ay,  Theodore  and  his  companions  sought  in  vain  for 
fords ;  for  the  heavy  rain  which  had  fallen  during  the 
preceding  night  had  swelled  the  river  which  rushed  on 
in  haste,  a  brown,  discoloured  mass  of  hurried  waters, 
towards  the  Danube.  Night  fell  ere  they  had  succeed- 
ed, and  the  early  moon  burst  out  and  swept  the  clouds 
away.  Choosing  some  sandy  soil  for  their  night's  en- 
campment, Theodore  and  his  own  immediate  attendants 
sat  round  one  fire,  while  the  Alans,  following  the  prac- 
tice of  the  Huns,  lighted  several  others ;  and,  though 
the  young  Roman  was  again  long  ere  he  slept,  yet  at 
length  pleasant  dreams  blessed  his  eyes,  and  daylight 
was  already  pouring  on  the  world  when  he  awoke.  It 
was  the  bustle  of  preparation  which  aroused  him,  and 
he  found  all  nearly  ready  to  depart. 

Looking  round  as  he  was  about  to  spring  upon  his 
horse,  he  missed  a  face  that  was  seldom  absent  from 
his  side.  "  Where  is  Cremera"?"  he  demanded  of  those 
who  stood  near. 

"  He  went  at  daybreak,"  they  replied,  "  to  see  if  he 
could  find  a  ford  farther  down  the  river.  He  said  that 
he  would  not  be  long,  but  he  has  not  yet  returned." 

"  Then  Ave  must  trace  down  the  river  till  we  find 
him,"  replied  Theodore  ;  and,  mounting  his  horse,  he  led 
the  way  slowly  along  the  banks  of  the  Tibiscus.  An 
hour  went  by,  and  then  another,  but  Cremera  did  not 
appear.  The  woods  which  swept  over  the  neighbour- 
ing country,  and  which  every  here  and  there  approached 
within  a  few  hundred  yards  of  the  river,  though  not 
thick,  aff"orded  quite  sufficient  covering  to  have  con- 
cealed the  Arab,  if  he  had  taken  his  way  back  to  the 
sleeping-place  by  some  of  the  forest  paths ;  and  such, 
Theodore  became  convinced,  had  been  the  case,  as  the 


200  ATTILA. 

third  hour  went  by,  and  the  freedman  had  not  rejoined 
them.  Towards  the  end  of  that  period,  however,  they 
found  a  ford,  and  halted  on  tlie  margin  in  expectation 
of  his  coming ;  for  his  young  master  could  not  help 
feeling  it  extraordinary,  that  one  so  quick  ai\d  rapid  in 
all  his  decisions  as  the  Arab  was  should  not  long  be- 
fore have  discovered  that  the  whole  troop  had  gone  on, 
and  overtaken  them  as  they  rode. 

As  more  time  passed  and  he  appeared  not,  Theodore 
became  uneasy,  and  the  memory  of  the  faithful  Afri- 
can's zeal,  and  affection,  and  services  came  in  full  stream 
upon  his  heart.  At  length,  bidding  the  Alani  cross  the 
ford  and  wait  for  him  at  the  other  side,  he  turned  back 
with  his  little  troop  of  Huns,  and  rode  swiftly  along, 
spreading  out  his  men  through  the  woods  on  the  right, 
and,  as  was  customary  among  them,  keeping  up  his 
communication  with  them  by  cries  of  various  conven- 
tional import. 

Thus  they  had  proceeded  for  more  than  an  hour  and 
a  half,  though  they  rode  much  more  quickly  than  before, 
and  they  had  nearly  readied  the  spot  whence  they  set 
forth  in  the  morning,  when  Theodore  heard  one  of  his 
followers  in  the  wood  give  the  peculiar  shout  which 
was  understood  to  express  a  desire  for  all  the  compan- 
ions of  him  who  uttered  it  to  halt.  The  next  instant 
the  man  appeared  at  the  verge  of  the  wood,  beckoning 
eagerly  to  the  young  Roman. 

Riding  up  with  a  sinking  heart,  Theodore  eagerly 
asked  what  he  had  found.  The  man  made  no  other  re- 
ply than,  "Come  hither!  come  hither!"  with  an  ex- 
pression of  countenance  which  did  not  serve  to  allay  the 
Roman's  apprehensions.  Ten  steps  brought  him  into  a 
little  gap  in  the  wood ;  and  what  was  his  horror  to  be- 
hold the  gigantic  form  of  the  faithful  African  stretched 
out  between  two  trees,  with  one  hand  nailed  to  each,  so 
as  to  keep  him  in  an  erect  position.*  His  head,  fallen 
forward  on  his  chest,  showed  that  life  was  quite  extinct, 
and  a  number  of  arrows  left  in  the  body  spoke  the  cruel 
and  painful  death  which  he  must  have  died. 

With  a  heart  full  of  grief  and  indignation,  Theodore 
approached  the  body  with  his  companion;  but  while 

*  Crucifixion,  which  we  have  reason  to  believe  one  of  the  most 
agonizing  kinds  of  death,  was  one  of  the  common  punishments 
among  the  Huns. 


ATTILA.  201 

they  gazed  upon  it,  wondering  who  could  have  com- 
mitted so  horrible  a  deed,  another  of  the  young  Roman's 
followers  came  up,  galloping  through  the  trees  at  full 
speed.  Ere  he  could  speak  distinctly,  however,  the 
cause  of  his  quick  approach  became  evident.  Other 
Hunnish  horsemen  appeared  whose  faces  were  un- 
known to  the  young  Roman;  men  on  foot  came  gliding 
through  the  wood,  and  Theodore,  with  his  two  follow- 
ers, found  themselves  surrounded  by  at  least  a  hundred 
fierce-looking  strangers,  whose  purpose  was  scarcely 
doubtful. 

They  rushed  in  upon  him  suddenly  and  without 
speaking;  and  as  he  drew  his  sword  to  take  some  ven- 
geance at  least  before  he  died  the  same  death  as  the 
unhappy  freedman,  one  of  those  on  foot  sprang  upon  his 
horse's  back  behind,  and  embarrassed  his  arm  by  cling- 
ing closely  to  him.  He  was  then  overpowered  in  a 
moment.  His  two  Hunnish  followers  made  no  resist- 
ance to  the  overwhelming  force  which  surrounded  them, 
but  only  remonstrated  loudly  and  rapidly,  threatening 
the  vengeance  of  Attila.  Their  captors,  however,  an- 
swered only  by  a  scoff:  and  Theodore  could  hear  the 
name  of  Bleda  pronounced  as  authority  sufficient  for  the 
act  they  had  committed. 

At  that  name,  the  prospect  of  immediate  death  pre- 
sented itself  more  strongly  than  ever;  and  though  he 
nerved  his  mind  to  bear  with  unshrinking  fortitude  the 
same  dreadful  lot  which  had  fallen  to  the  unfortunate 
Cremera,  yet  even  then,  in  the  dark  moment  of  ap- 
proaching fate,  the  memory  of  those  he  loved — whom 
he  might  never  see  again,  and  whom  he  left  all  alone 
and  unprotected  in  the  wide  and  perilous  world — came 
thrilling  through  his  heart,  inflicting,  by  anticipation,  the 
worst  of  all  death's  pangs.  When  once  he  found  that 
he  could  not  resist  effectually,  he  suffered  his  captors 
to  do  with  him  whatsoever  they  pleased ;  but  he  found 
to  his  surprise  that  they  did  not  take  him  from  his 
horse,  contenting  themselves  with  tying  his  hands  and 
arms  tightly  behind  his  back  with  thick  thongs  of  lea- 
ther ;  and  it  soon  became  evidesnt,  that,  if  their  intention 
still  was  to  put  him  to  death,  they  would  choose  another 
hour. 

Hitherto  the  young  Roman  had  not  spoken ;  but  when 
at  length  they  took  the  bridle  of  his  horse,  and  were 
about  to  lead  him  away,  he  turned  his  eyes  upon  the 


202  ATTILA. 

body  of  Cremera,  saying  to  one  who  seemed  the  leader 
of  the  troop,  "  Will  ye  not  give  him  burial  at  least  ]" 

"  No  !"  replied  the  Hun,  fiercely.  "  No  !  Did  he  not 
dare  to  raise  his  hand  against  our  lord  and  king  ]  No  ! 
There  shall  he  stay,  till  from  his  bones  the  vultures 
and  the  crows  have  picked  away  his  flesh  :  the  toad,  and 
the  lizard,  and  the  snail  shall  crawl  over  his  feet,  while 
the  carrion-cater  comes  down  from  the  heavens,  and 
takes  its  daily  meal  upon  his  carcass.  Such,  too,  shall 
be  thy  fate  ;  but  it  is  first  needful  that  Bleda  the  King 
should  see  thee,  that  he  may  devise  how  to  punish  thee 
as  thou  meritest." 

"  I  fear  not  death,"  replied  Theodore,  "  and  can  bear 
pain;  but  of  this  I  am  sure,  I  shall  not  die  unavenged. 
Attila  will  avenge  me  even  of  his  brother." 

"  If  he  can,"  replied  the  Hun;  "but  perchance  the 
day  of  Attila's  power  is  gone  by." 

Theodore  replied  not,  but  suffered  them  to  lead  him 
whithersoever  they  pleased.  At  first  they  proceeded 
slowly,  looking  to  the  young  Roman  from  time  to  time ; 
but  seeing  that  he  sat  his  horse  as  w^ell  as  before, 
although  his  hands  were  tied,  they  soon  got  into  a 
quicker  pace,  which  increased  to  a  gallop  wiien  they 
reached  the  open  plains.  After  crossing  one  of  these, 
they  again  came  to  a  large  tract  of  wood ;  and  when 
they  issued  forth  once  more,  the  sun,  in  setting,  was 
pouring  a  flood  of  light  upon  the  blue  eastern  mountains, 
towards  which  their  course  seemed  bent.  Theodore 
thought  the  features  of  the  scene  were  familiar  to  his 
eye ;  and,  as  they  rode  on,  he  felt  sure  that  a  distant 
wood  which  he  saw  stretching  out  into  the  plain  was 
that  on  the  verge  of  which  was  situated  the  dwelling  of 
Bleda.  Night,  however,  came  on  rapidly ;  and,  ere 
they  came  near  the  wood,  the  whole  world  was  involved 
in  darkness. 

At  length  they  began  to  pass  among  the  houses,  and 
Theodore  became  convinced  that  he  had  not  been  mis- 
taken. All  was  quiet  as  they  rode  on,  for  the  early 
Huns  had  betaken  themselves  to  their  dwellings  ;  and  it 
was  only  as  he  passed  along  before  the  wide  rambling 
building  which  formed  the  dweUing  of  Bleda,  that  The- 
odore heard  the  sounds  of  mirth  and  rude  revelry  pro- 
ceeding from  that  apartment  w^hich  he  knew  to  be  the 
hall  of  the  banquet.  He  was  led  along  to  the  farther 
extremity  of  the  building,  and  thrust  into  a  chamber 


ATTILA.  203 

which  had  evidently  been  destined  for  a  place  of  con- 
finement. It,  like  the  house,  was  all  of  wood,  but  no 
windows,  except  a  row  of  small  apertures  near  the  roof, 
appeared  to  admit  air  or  light ;  and  across  the  outside 
of  the  door  through  which  the  prisoner  had  entered  was 
cast,  as  his  captors  departed,  a  huge  beam  of  wood, 
which  would  have  defied  the  strength  of  a  Hercules  to 
shake  it  from  within. 

Theodore  was  left  alone ;  for  the  two  Huns  who  had 
been  captured  with  him,  and  had  been  brought  there  at 
the  same  time,  were  placed  in  some  other  chamber, 
perhaps  from  a  fear  that  they  might  assist  him  in  esca- 
ping. All  was  darkness,  for  neither  food  nor  lamp  was 
given  to  the  prisoner ;  and,  seating  himself  upon  the 
rude  bench  which  he  found  at  one  side  of  the  room, 
Theodore  spent  the  succeeding  hours  in  momentary  an- 
ticipation of  death,  and  in  thoughts  and  regrets  which 
added  fresh  gall  to  the  cup  of  bitterness. 

Few  were  the  sounds  which  disturbed  his  painful 
reveries ;  for  though  from  time  to  time  the  roar  of  bar- 
barian merriment  echoed  through  the  long  passages, 
and  found  its  way  even  to  the  lonely  chamber  in  which 
he  was  immersed,  yet  it  came  faint  and  softened  to  his 
ear,  and  at  length,  after  rising  to  a  louder  pitch  than  be- 
fore, suddenly  ceased,  and  all  was  still.  Theodore 
listened  to  hear  if  those  sounds  would  be  renewed  ;  but 
deep  silence  seemed  to  reign  over  all  the  household, 
and  for  two  hours  everything  remained  perfectly  quiet. 

At  length  a  streak  of  light  appeared  above  and  below 
the  door,  and  a  low  murmuring  sound  reached  the 
sharpened  ear  of  the  prisoner.  "  It  is  a  fit  hour  for 
death,"  he  thought ;  and  the  next  moment  he  heard  the 
heavy  beam  grate  slowly  and  gently  against  the  walls, 
as  it  was  removed  from  across  the  door.  The  door  it- 
self was  opened  cautiously,  and  the  deformed  head  and 
shoulders  of  the  negro  jester,  Zercon,  were  thrust  into 
the  room.  In  one  hand  he  held  a  lamp,  and  with  the 
forefinger  of  the  other,  raised  to  his  lips,  seemed  to  en- 
join perfect  silence. 

He  held  up  the  lamp  ere  he  entered  fully,  and  looked 
round  the  room  with  careful  attention,  as  if  he  expected 
to  see  some  other  tenant  besides  Theodore.  Then,  ad- 
vancing rapidly,  he  whispered  in  Greek,  "  The  Lady 
Neva  knows  of  your  being  here  ;  I  heard  that  you  w^ere 
taken  while  I  was  in  the  hall,  w^here  her  fierce  father 


204  ATTILA. 

was  drinkiiif]^ ;  and  as  I  had  found  out  by  her  face,  when 
lie  talkiul  of  waylaying  you  yesterday,  how  it  went 
witli  her  young  heart,  1  told  her  all  directly,  and  she  is 
coming  to  save  you  :  but  she  sent  nie  first  to  see  if  any 
of  the  guards  remained  M'ith  you,  for  tlie  poor  buffoon 
can  venture,  in  his  folly,  upon  things  that  the  clumsy 
wise  man  would  spoil  if  he  touched — Hush!  I  hear  her 
in  the  passage,  or  somebody  else ;"  and  he  advanced 
and  looked  out  at  the  door,  which  he  had  closed  behind 
him  as  he  had  entered. 

The  next  moment  he  made  a  sign  with  his  hand — 
there  was  a  light  footfall — the  door  was  pushed  farther 
open,  and  with  an  eager  step  the  beautiful  daughter  of 
Bleda  entered  the  room,  and  stood  before  him  slie  loved^ 
She  was  very  pale,  but  that  might  proceed  from  appre- 
hension ;  and  yet  there  was  a  devoted  determination  in 
those  tender  eyes  which  told  that  death  itself  would 
have  no  terrors  if  it  lay  in  the  path  to  save  the  young 
Roman.  She  also  carried  a  lamp  in  one  hand,  but  in 
the  other  she  bore  a  naked  dagger.  Ere  she  spoke  a 
word,  she  set  down  the  lamp  upon  the  ground,  and  cut 
with  a  rapid  hand  the  thongs  which  bound  the  prisoner's 
arms. 

"  I  knew,"  she  said  at  length,  "  I  knew  that  the  time 
would  come  when  I  should  save  you.  Oh,  Theodore  ? 
how  I  have  prayed  for  this  hour !  But  I  must  not  waste 
it  now  it  has  arrived.  Zercon !  quick  !  see  why  that 
tardy  slave,  Abac,  has  not  brought  a  horse.  He  would 
not  betray  me,  surely.  But  sooner  than  that  he  should 
deliver  the  Roman  again  to  death,  drive  thy  dagger 
into  his  heart.  I  bid  thee  do  it,  and  I  will  abide  what 
comes !" 

The  negro  hastened  to  obey ;  and  Neva  gazed  upon 
the  countenance  of  him  wdiom  she  was  risking  so  much 
to  save  with  one  of  those  looks  of  deep,  unutterable 
affection,  which  the  very  hopelessness  of  the  passion 
from  which  it  spmng  purified,  dignified,  sanctified  even 
in  its  strong  intensity.  The  next  moment,  as  Theo- 
dore was  pouring  forth  his  thanks  to  an  ear  that  seemed 
scarcely  to  hear  them — so  deeply  was  she  occupied 
with  the  emotions  of  her  own  bosom — the  sound  of  a 
horse's  feet  was  heard,  led  gently  forward  ;  and  a  smile 
of  triumphant  pleasure  played  upon  Neva's  lip. 

In  another  instant,  however,  it  changed,  as  she 
thought  that  horse  was  to  bear  him  away,  perhaps  for 


ATTILA.  205 

ever.  The  tears  rose  in  her  bkie  eyes,  ran  shining 
through  the  black  lashes  that  fringed  them,  and  fell  upon 
her  cheek  ;  and  for  one  moment  she  hid  her  face  upon 
the  young  Roman's  bosom,  and  he  pressed  her  gently, 
gratefully  in  his  arms,  whispering  words  of  comfort  and 
of  thanks.  But,  suddenly  raising  her  head,  she  turned 
it  away,  while  her  hand  still  lingered  in  his,  saying, 
"  Go  !  go  !  Tarry  not  longer.  I  have  saved  you — that 
is  enough — I  am  happy.  To  know  that  I  have  saved 
you  is  enough  happiness  for  me  through  life.  Go  !  go ! 
every  moment  is  precious  !" 

Theodore  raised  the  hand  he  held  to  his  lips,  pressed 
upon  it  one  kiss  of  deep  gratitude,  dropped  it,  and 
left  the  chamber  which  had  been  his  prison.  At  the 
door  stood  Zercon,  who  led  him  quickly  forth  to  a  spot 
where,  among  the  grass,  so  that  his  feet  might  not  be 
heard,  stood  a  horse,  held  by  one  of  the  slaves  whom 
Theodore  had  seen  when  he  was  there  before. 

"  I  could  have  wished  it  had  been  my  own  horse,"  he 
said,  speaking  to  Zercon. 

"  Your  own  horse  will  never  bear  any  one  more," 
replied  the  negro  :  "  they  slew  him  within  an  hour  after 
they  had  brought  him  hither." 

Theodore  could  have  wept;  but,  without  reply,  he 
sprang  upon  the  horse,  and  shook  his  hand  towards  the 
dwelling  of  Bleda. 

"  Follow  yon  star,"  continued  Zercon,  pointing  to 
one  near  the  pole,  "  and  ere  morning  thou  shalt  be 
among  the  mountains  that  overhang  the  dwelling  of 
Attila." 

'•  I  thank  thee,"  replied  Theodore,  speaking  to  the 
negro — "  I  thank  thee,  my  friend  :  the  time  may  come 
when  I  can  show  thee  my  gratitude."  Thus  saying, 
he  shook  the  bridle,  and  urged  the  horse  on  at  full 
speed,  following  exactly  the  course  which  had  been 
pointed  out  to  him.  Ere  morning,  he  beheld  the  wa- 
ters of  the  Mariscus  stretching  out  before  him ;  but 
knowing  that  the  horses  of  the  Huns  possessed,  either 
by  natural  instinct,  or  had  acquired  by  constant  habit, 
the  power  of  distinguishing  what  rivers  and  what  places 
they  could  swim  across,  he  rode  the  beast  rapidly  to 
the  bank,  and  then  left  the  bridle  upon  his  neck,  in 
order  that  he  might  take  to  the  stream  or  not,  as  he 
pleased.  The  horse,  however,  without  any  sign  of  dis- 
inclination, ran  down   the  bank  and  waded  into  the 

Vol.  I.— S 


206  ATTILA. 

water.  After  pausing  for  a  moment  to  drink,  he  ad 
vanced  still  farther,  and  then,  with  a  sudden  plunge, 
began  to  swim,  though  the  stream  was  running  some- 
what rapidly.  The  deep  water  was  of  no  great  extent, 
and  the  horse's  hoofs  soon  struck  the  ground.  The 
bank  was  soon  gained,  and,  apparently  refreshed  with 
the  cool  wave,  the  swift  horse  bore  the  young  Roman 
rapidly  on  his  way. 

The  dawn  was  just  breaking  when  he  arrived  at  the 
foot  of  the  hills,  and  by  the  time  he  had  reached  the 
top  the  broad  light  of  day  was  shining  over  all  the 
world.  He  saw,  by  one  of  the  peaks  to  the  south, 
that  he  was  several  miles  farther  up  in  the  chain  than 
the  spot  where  he  had  before  passed  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  the  two  hermits.  Pausing  to  breathe  his  horse, 
he  looked  over  the  plain  behind  him,  and  could  see,  at 
the  distance  of  several  leagues,  what  appeared  to  be  a 
strong  body  of  horsemen  following  rapidly  on  the  very 
track  he  had  taken.  There  was  no  time  to  be  lost; 
and,  hurrying  on,  he  reached  the  plains  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill,  nor  paused  again  till  the  flagging  powers  of  his 
horse  obliged  him  to  stop  in  order  to  give  the  animal 
food  and  repose. 

He  could  well  afford  to  rest,  however ;  for  even  if  the 
horsemen  he  had  seen  were  really  in  pursuit  of  him, 
yet  the  distance  at  which  they  had  appeared  from  the 
foot  of  the  mountains,  and  the  difficulty  of  climbing 
those  mountains  themselves,  promised  to  afford  him  at 
least  four  hours  of  open  time.  His  horse  fed,  and  then 
lay  down  to  rest  among  the  long  grass ;  and  Theodore, 
in  the  latter  respect  at  least,  followed  its  example; 
knowing  how  small  an  object  might  be  discerned  from 
the  tops  of  the  mountains  in  that  wide  uncovered  plain, 
and  trusting  that,  while  hidden  by  the  grass,  his  ene- 
mies, if  they  came  sooner  than  he  expected,  might 
miss  his  track,  and  perhaps  turn  back  disappointed. 
He  kept  his  eye  fixed,  however,  upon  the  ridge  of  the 
hills  ;  and  well  it  was  he  did  so,  for,  having  taken,  per- 
haps, an  easier  path  than  he  had  done,  his  enemies  did 
begin  to  appear  upon  the  summits  in  less  than  two 
hours  after  he  had  reached  the  base. 

At  first  they  could  scarcely  be  distinguished  from  the 
rocks  amid  which  they  came  forth  on  the  top  of  the 
hills ;  but  soon  the  number  of  moving  objects  which  he 
beheld  at  one  particular  point  showed  the  young  Roman 


ATTILA.  207 

that  as  yet  they  had  followed  but  too  successfully.  For 
a  time  the  pursuers  seemed  to  hesitate  whether  they 
should  proceed  any  farther,  and  he  could  see  them  lin- 
gering during  several  minutes,  hanging  like  a  dark 
cloud  upon  the  ridge  of  the  mountain.  At  length  they 
began  evidently  to  descend,  and  that  moment  Theodore 
sprang  upon  his  feet,  roused  his  horse,  which  seemed 
to  have  fallen  asleep,  and,  leaping  into  the  saddle,  gal- 
loped on  towards  a  wood  that  lay  at  the  distance  of 
three  or  four  miles  before  him. 

As  he  came  near,  he  beheld  several  small  huts  gath- 
ered together ;  and,  approaching  them,  he  resolved  to 
see  if  he  could  procure  a  fresh  horse  in  exchange  for 
the  weary  one  which  bore  him.  The  name  of  Attila  ob- 
tained what  no  bribe  could  have  gained.  The  head  of 
the  httle  tribe,  leading  out  his  own  horse,  placed  the 
rude  bridle  in  Theodore's  hand;  and,  once  more  hurry- 
ing on  his  way,  the  young  Roman,  ere  night  fell,  saw 
the  moimtains  and  the  woods  that  swept  round  the 
dwelling  of  the  king,  and  heard  the  rushing  sound  of 
the  near  Tibiscus. 

It  was  night  when  he  arrived  at  the  widespread  vil- 
lage ;  but  all  was  peaceful  within,  and  no  guard  or  sen- 
tinel impeded  his  way,  even  to  the  porticoes  of  the  mon- 
arch's lowly  abode.  As  he  alighted  and  approached 
the  inner  gates  of  the  building,  he  was  met  by  one  of 
Attila's  slaves,  whom  he  had  seen  more  than  once  be- 
fore, and  who  now  told  him  that  the  king  had  gone 
to  rest. 

"  He  feared  that  you  were  slain,"  continued  the  man ; 
"  for  many  of  those  who  went  hence  with  you  but  a 
few  days  ago  returned  with  speed  this  day,  and  declared 
that  you  had  been  put  to  death.  They  are  now  at  the 
dwelling  where  you  were  lodged  before,  and  will  gladly 
see  you  living,  for  they  thought  you  dead." 

The  young  Roman  took  his  way  to  the  house  he  had 
formerly  inhabited ;  and  the  unaffected  joy  displayed 
by  the  rude  Huns  who  had  been  given  him  as  attend- 
ants, on  seeing  him  again  in  life,  compensated  for 
some  bitter  pangs.  Attila's  slaves  brought  him  provis- 
ions and  wine,  but  he  was  too  weary  to  enjoy  food, 
and,  after  a  short  and  slight  repast,  he  cast  himself 
do\\'Ti  to  rest. 

The  image  of  his  faithful  Cremera,  however,  rose  up 
before  his  eyes,  and  for  some  time  banished  sleep. 


208  ATTILA. 

His  noble  horse,  too,  thougli  less  in  the  scale  of  regret, 
was  not  without  its  share  of  painful  recollection.  "  The 
two  last  friends,"  he  thought,  "  who  accompanied  me 
from  my  native  home  to  this  barbarian  land,  have  in 
one  day  been  taken  from  me,  and  I  am  alone — without 
one  being  near  me  who  has  any  memories  in  common 
with  mine  own."  Fatigue  at  length  prevailed,  and  he 
slept.  Early  on  the  following  morning  he  was  roused 
by  a  summons  to  the  presence  of  the  king,  and  at  the 
gate  of  the  palace  he  beheld  a  numerous  train  of  horse- 
men, waiting  as  if  prepared  for  a  journey. 

Attila  himself  was  seated  beneath  the  porch,  and  be- 
side him  stood  Ardaric  and  another  kingly  leader, 
whom  Theodore  afterward  learned  to  be  Valamir,  king 
of  the  Ostrogoths,  with  several  other  chiefs  of  inferior 
powder.  The  brows  of  all  were  clouded,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  that  of  Attila,  which  wore  the  same  stern, 
calm  aspect  that  so  seldom  left  it. 

"  Thou  hast  been  impeded  on  thy  way,  my  son,"  said 
the  monarch,  slowly;  "one  of  thy  faithful  followers 
slain,  and  thou  thyself  carried  away  to  the  dwelling  of 
my  unwise  brother  Bleda;  so  some  who  returned 
hither  reported  to  me  yesterday.  Did  he  set  thee  free, 
after  having,  as  he  thought,  sufficiently  insulted  his 
brother  ?     Or  didst  thou  escape  ]" 

"  I  escaped,  oh  king !  during  the  night,"  replied  The- 
odore ;  but  not  knowing  what  might  be  the  conduct  of 
Attila,  he  refrained  from  telling  how  his  escape  had 
been  accomplished,  lest  the  share  which  Neva  and 
Zercon  had  had  therein  might  reach  the  ears  of  Bleda. 
"  I  escaped  during  the  night,  and  have  been  keenly  pur- 
sued, even  across  the  mountains."    . 

Attila  rolled  his  dark  eyes  round  to  the  faces  of  all 
the  different  leaders  near,  with  a  slight  compression  of 
the  lips,  which  marked  that  he  was  moved  more  than 
usual. 

"  And  thy  faithful  Arab  is  dead,  then ;  is  it  not  so  1" 
demanded  the  king, 

"  Alas !  so  it  is,  oh  king !"  replied  Theodore  :  "  nailed 
by  the  two  hands  to  two  separate  trees,  I  found  him 
pierced  with  arrows  by  the  banks  of  the  river,  some 
two  hours'  journey  on  this  side  of  the  first  ford.  There 
any  one  may  see  him,  for  they  have  denied  him  even 
the  shelter  of  the  grave." 

Attila  folded  his  arms  upon  his  wide  chest,  and  gazed 


ATTILA.  209 

for  a  moment  upon  Theodore  in  silence.  "  Woiildst 
thou  still  pursue  thy  journey,"  he  asked  at  length, 
"  after  such  misfortunes  on  the  way  ]" 

"  If  it  may  be  pursued  at  all  with  life,  I  would  fain 
pursue  it,"  answered  Theodore. 

"  It  may  be  pursued  with  safety,"  said  the  monarch. 
"  In  thy  case,  Attila's  protection  has  been  twice  insulted 
— it  shall  not  be  so  a  third  time.  None  but  a  brother 
dared  do  what  has  been  done ;  but  even  a  brother  has 
gone  too  far.  If  thou  wouldst  go  on  thy  way,  join  with 
thy  followers,  in  less  than  an  hour,  those  warriors 
who  stand  around  the  gate.  They  will  conduct  thee 
by  the  higher  country  to  the  land  of  thy  kindred  ;  and 
1  swear  by  mine  own  heart  that  those  who  stay  you, 
going  or  returning,  were  it  even  by  a  willow  wand 
across  thy  path,  I  will  smite  from  the  face  of  the  earth, 
and  lay  their  dwellings  level  with  the  sand,  and  sell 
their  wives  and  children  unto  slavery.  Now  make 
ready  quickly,  and  proceed !" 

Theodore  failed  not  to  obey  ;  and  in  as  short  a  space 
of  time  as  possible  he  was  once  more  upon  horseback, 
and  on  his  way  towards  the  west. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE  MEETING  OF  THE  PARTED. 

Across  wide  plains,  through  deep  solitudes,  amid  dim 
woods,  over  gigantic  mountains,  by  the  banks  of  the 
stream,  and  the  torrent,  and  the  lake,  among  the  occa- 
sional ruins  left  upon  the  footsteps  of  ancient  civiliza- 
tion and  the  scattered  villages  of  barbarian  hordes,  The- 
odore once  more  pursued  his  way.  Every  kind  of 
scene  but  that  of  the  cultivated  city  met  his  eye,  and 
every  kind  of  weather  that  the  changeful  autumn  of  a 
northern  land  can  display  accompanied  him  on  his  path. 
The  splendid  October  sunshine,  beaming  clear  and  kind 
upon  the  earth,  like  the  tempered  smile  of  a  father 
looking  in  mellow  ripeness  of  years  upon  his  rising  off- 
spring ;  the  flitting  shadows  of  the  heavy  clouds,  as 
they  swept   by  over  the  landscape,   resembling  the 

S2 


210  ATTILA. 

gloomy  cares  and  apprehensions  which  sometimes  cross 
the  brightest  moments  of  enjoyment;  the  dull  misty 
deluge,  pouring  down  from  morning  until  night,  without 
interval  or  cessation,  shutting  out  all  prospects,  and 
promising  no  brighter  time,  like  tlie  hopeless  existence 
of  but  too  many  of  the  sons  of  toil  ;  the  brief  and  angiy 
thunder-storm,  rending  the  stoutest  trees,  like  the  fierce 
passing  of  war  or  civil  contention,  all  visited  him  by 
turns,  as  he  journeyed  onward  from  the  banks  of  the 
Tibiscus,  till  he  once  more  joined  the  Danube,  at  a  spot 
where,  shrunk  to  a  comparatively  insignificant  stream, 
it  flowed  on  between  the  countries  now  called  Bavaria 
and  Austria. 

It  was  on  one  of  those  dim  uncertain  days,  when  all 
distant  objects  are  shut  out  from  the  sight,  that  he 
crossed  the  river  a  little  above  its  junction  with  the 
Inn,  and  entered  upon  the  open  country  of  Bavaria. 
Nothing  was  to  be  seen  but  the  flat  plain  which  stretches 
onward  along  the  banks  of  the  Inn;  and  when,  after 
halting  for  the  night  amid  some  rude  huts,  where  the 
people  seemed  to  speak  the  language  of  the  Goths,  he 
recommenced  his  journey  on  the  following  morning, 
the  same  dull  cheerless  prospect  was  all  that  presented 
itself,  stretched  upon  the  gray  back-ground  of  broad  un- 
varied cloud.  His  companions  had  now  been  reduced 
to  twenty,  by  the  larger  party  having  left  him  as  soon 
as  he  was  free  from  danger  ;  and  none  but  his  own  pe- 
culiar attendants  accompanied  him,  except  three  officers 
of  the  household  of  Aitila,  sent  with  authority  from  that 
mighty  and  far-feared  monarch  to  demand  a  free  pas- 
sage for  the  young  Roman  through  whatever  countries 
he  might  have  to  traverse.  It  was  one  of  these  officers 
— who  took  care  to  show  all  kindly  reverence  towards 
a  youth  who  stood  so  high  in  the  favour  of  the  king — 
that  now,  pointing  forward  to  a  little  stream  which 
flowed  on  to  join  the  Inn,  informed  the  young  Roman 
that  along  its  banks  was  settled  the  nation  which  he 
came  to  seek. 

"And  is  this,"  thought  Theodore,  "this  bleak  wil- 
derness the  destined  habitation  of  my  Ildica,  nurtured 
in  the  lap  of  ease  and  civilization  '?  Is  this  flat,  unmean- 
ing plain,  bounded  by  a  gray  cloud,  all  that  is  to  greet 
her  eyes  after  the  splendours  of  the  Adriatic  shore  and 
the  marvellous  beauty  of  Salona  P'  And  with  a  deep 
sigh  he  thought  of  the  regretted  past. 


ATTILA.  211 

Ere  he  had  ridden  on  a  quarter  of  an  hour  longer, 
however,  a  hght  wind  sprung  up;  and  rising,  hke  a 
curtain  drawn  slowly  up  from  some  picture  of  surpas- 
sing beauty,  the  veil  of  clouds  was  lifted  to  the  south, 
displaying  as  it  rose,  robed  in  the  magic  purple  of  the 
mountain  air,  the  wild  but  splendid  scenery  of  the  Bava- 
rian Tyrol. 

A  few  moments  more  brought  the  young  Roman  to 
a  congregation  of  small  wooden  houses,  not  far  from 
the  first  gentle  slopes  that  served  to  blend  the  plain 
with  the  highlands.  A  fair  girl,  with  whose  face  The- 
odore felt  as  if  he  could  claim  kindred,  paused,  with  a 
basket  of  milk  in  her  hand,  to  gaze  upon  the  troop  of 
horsemen  who  were  passing  by,  but  without  any  sign 
of  fear.  Theodore  asked  her  some  question  concerning 
the  road,  and  she  replied  lightly  and  gayly,  with  the 
milkmaid's  careless  glee,  speaking  the  pure  Alan  tongue 
in  accents  that  made  the  young  Roman's  heart  thrill 
again  to  hear.  He  rode  gladly  on  his  way,  assured  by 
those  tones  that  he  was  at  length  once  more  in  the 
same  land  with  her  he  loved.  That  land,  he  knew, 
was  of  no  very  great  extent,  and  therefore  he  had  not 
any  cause  to  anticipate  a  long  and  painful  search ;  but 
still  the  eager  thirst  with  which  young  affection  pants 
towards  its  object  made  him  anxious  not  to  lose  a 
single  moment  in  any  unnecessary  delay  ;  and  he  de- 
termined, as  they  wound  onward  towards  the  little  cap- 
ital of  the  mountain  tribe,  to  inquire,  wherever  he 
came,  for  the  dwelling  of  the  Roman  family,  whose  ar- 
rival in  the  land,  he  doubted  not,  had  excited  no  small 
rumour  and  attention. 

There  remained  yet  two  hours  to  sunset,  when,  pas- 
sing through  some  gentle  hills,  Theodore  suddenly 
found  himself  on  the  banks  of  a  small  but  beautiful 
lake,  surrounded  on  three  sides  by  the  mountains. 
The  shore,  at  the  spot  where  he  stood,  was  low  and 
sandy,  with  here  and  there  a  fringe  of  long  reeds, 
mingling  the  water  with  the  land,  but  on  all  the  other 
sides  the  banks  were  more  abrupt.  From  the  lake  up 
to  the  very  sky  on  those  three  sides  stretched  the  up- 
land, rising  in  different  ranges,  like  Titan  steps  where- 
by to  scale  the  heavens,  but  divided  at  different  angles 
by  intervening  valleys,  up  which  was  seen  the  long 
blue  perspective  of  interminable  hills  beyond.  The 
first  step  of  that  mountain  throne,  carpeted  as  if  with 


212  ATTILA. 

green  velvet,  by  pastures  still  iinimbrowned  and  rich, 
was  covered  M'ilh  sheep  and  cattle  feeding  in  peace. 
Beyond  that  appeared  a  range,  clothed  with  glowing 
woods  of  oak,  and  elm,  and  beech,  filled  with  the  more 
timid  and  gentle  inhabitants  of  the  sylvan  world  ;  while 
above,  tenanted  by  the  wolf,  the  fox.  and  other  beasts 
of  prey,  stretched  wide  the  region  of  the  pine  and  fir ; 
and,  towering  over  all,  gray,  cold,  and  awful,  rose  the 
peaks  of  primeval  granite,  with  nothing  but  the  proud 
eagle  soaring  between  them  and  heaven.  Below,  the 
lake,  unruffled  by  a  breeze,  lay  calm  and  still,  offering 
a  mirror  to  the  beauty  of  the  scene,  where  every  line 
of  picturesque  loveliness  was  reflected  without  a  change, 
and  every  hue  of  all  the  varied  colouring  around,  from 
the  rich  brown  of  the  autumnal  woods  to  tlie  purple  of 
the  distant  mountains,  and  the  floods  of  amber  and  of 
rose  that  evening  was  pouring  along  the  glowing  sky. 

Upon  the  lower  range  of  hills  many  a  wooden  cot- 
tage, neat  and  clean,  was  to  be  seen  ;  and  several  vil- 
lages, peeping  from  the  first  woods,  varied  the  scene 
with  the  pleasant  aspect  of  intelligent  life ;  and  as, 
winding  round  the  left  shore,  the  young  Roman  and  his 
companions  advanced  towards  a  spot  at  the  other  end 
of  the  lake  where  they  proposed  to  pass  the  night,  a 
thousand  new  beauties  opened  out  upon  their  sight. 
Theodore  gazed  around,  thinking  that  here  indeed  he 
could  spend  his  daj^s  in  peace  ;  and,  perhaps,  he  might 
envy  the  shepherd-boys  that  looked  down  upon  him 
from  low  flat-topped  hills  under  which  he  passed,  or 
the  women  and  girls  who,  sitting  by  the  cattle  at  pas- 
ture, roused  themselves  for  a  moment  from  their  pleas- 
ant idleness  to  mark  the  troop  of  horsemen  passing 
by. 

At  length,  upon  the  verge  of  a  smooth  meadow, 
which  covered  the  summit  of  a  steep  green  hill  at  the 
foot  of  the  higher  mountains — jutting  out  in  the  form 
of  a  small  promontory  above  the  road  he  was  pursuing, 
with  the  green  edge  cutting  sharp  upon  the  blue  moun- 
tain air  beyond — he  beheld  a  group  of  people  gathered 
together,  apparently  enjoying  the  evening  sunshine. 
Neither  sheep  nor  cattle  were  near ;  and  though  the 
dark  line  of  the  figures,  diminished  by  distance,  were 
all  that  Theodore  could  see  as  they  stood  on  the  clear, 
bright  back-ground,  yet  in  those  very  lines,  and  in  the 
graceful  attitudes  which  the  figures  assumed  as  they 


ATTILA.  213 

stood  or  sat,  there  was  something  so  Grecian  and  clas- 
sical, so  unlike  the  forms  offered  by  a  group  of  barbari- 
ans, that  the  heart  of  the  young  Roman  felt  a  thrill  of 
hope  which  made  it  beat  high. 

Suddenly  reining  in  his  horse,  he  stopped  to  gaze ; 
the  glad  hope  grew  into  more  joyful  certainty ;  and, 
without  further  thought  or  hesitation,  carried  away  by 
feelings  which  refused  control,  he  urged  his  horse  at 
the  gallop  up  the  steep  side  of  the  hill,  nor  paused,  even, 
for  a  moment,  till  he  had  reached  the  summit.  The 
Huns  gazed  with  surprise  from  below,  and  beheld  him, 
when  he  had  arrived  at  the  top,  spring  from  his  horse  in 
the  midst  of  the  group  which  had  caught  his  attention, 
and,  with  many  an  embrace  and  many  a  speaking  ges- 
ture, receive  his  welcome  to  the  bosom  of  ancient 
affection. 

"  He  has  found  his  home  !"  they  said  to  one  another 
as  they  saw  his  reception;  and,  winding  round  by  a 
more  secure  path,  they  followed  up  to  the  summit  of 
the  hill,  perceiving,  as  they  ascended,  a  number  of 
beautiful  mountain  dwellings  congregated  in  the  gorge 
of  a  ravine  behind. 

Oh  who  can  tell  w^hat  w^ere  in  the  mean  time  the 
emotions  which  agitated  the  group  above !  To  Theo- 
dore it  was  the  fruition  of  a  long-cherished  hope.  He 
held  his  Ildica  in  his  arms,  he  pressed  her  to  his  heart, 
he  saw  those  dark  and  lustrous  eyes',  swimming  in  the 
light  of  love's  delicious  tears,  gaze  at  him  with  the  full, 
passionate  earnestness  of  unimpaired  affection ;  he 
tasted  once  more  the  breath  of  those  sweet  lips,  he  felt 
once  more  the  thrilling  touch  of  that  soft  hand.  She 
was  paler  than  when  he  had  left  her,  but  in  her  counte- 
nance there  was — or  seemed  in  his  eyes  to  be — a 
crowning  charm  gained  since  he  last  had  seen  it. 
There  was  in  its  expression  a  depth  of  feeling,  an  in- 
tensity of  thought,  which,  though  softened  and  sweet- 
ened by  the  most  womanly  tenderness  and  youthful  in- 
nocence which  human  heart  ever  possessed,  added 
much  to  the  transcendent  beauty  that  memory  had  so 
often  recalled.  In  her  form,  too,  there  had  been  a 
slight  change,  which  had  rendered  the  symmetry  per- 
fect without  brushing  away  one  girlish  grace.  Flavia, 
too,  had  a  part  in  his  glad  feelings,  as  with  the  full 
measure  of  maternal  tenderness  she  held  him  in  her 
arms,  and  blessed  the  day  which  gave  him  back  to 


214  ATTILA. 

those  who  loved  him.  Eudochia  also,  over  whose 
head  the  passing  months  had  fled,  maturing  her  youth- 
ful heauty,  clung  round  her  brother,  and  with  eyes  of 
joyful  w(  Icoine  gazed  silently  up  in  his  face. 

Ammian  was  not  there  :  gone,  they  said,  to  hunt  the 
izzard  and  wild-goat  among  the  highest  peaks  of  the 
mountain ;  but  tlie  slaves  and  freedmen  who  had  fol- 
lowed Flavia  still,  through  every  change  of  fortune,  drew 
closer  round,  and  with  smiling  lips  and  sparkling  eyes 
greeted  the  young  Roman  on  his  return  among  them. 
It  was  not  long  ere  his  attendants  joined  him ;  and  as 
there  was  much  to  be  inquired  and  much  to  be  told  on 
all  parts,  Flavia  speedily  led  the  way  to  the  dwelling 
which  she  had  obtained  in  the  land  of  the  Alani ;  and 
Theodore,  with  Ildica's  hand  clasped  in  his,  and  Eudo- 
chia hanging  to  his  arm,  followed  to  the  little  group  of 
houses  which  filled  the  gorge  above. 

Oh  what  a  change  from  the  palace  of  Diocletian !  the 
marble  columns,  the  resplendent  walls,  the  sculptured 
friezes,  the  rich-wrouglit  capitals !  All  was  of  wood- 
work, neat,  clean,  and  picturesque  :  spacious  withal, 
and  convenient,  though  simple  and  unassuming.  With- 
in, Flavia,  and  her  children  and  attendants,  had  laboured 
hard  to  give  it  the  appearance  of  a  Roman  dwelling, 
trying,  by  the  presence  of  old  accustomed  objects,  to 
cheat  memory  and  banish  some  of  her  sad  train  of  re- 
grets ;  nor  had  they  been  unsuccessful  in  producing  the 
appearance  they  desired,  for  all  that  they  had  brought 
from  Salona,  and  which,  under  the  safe  escort  of  the 
Huns,  had  been  conveyed  from  the  neighbourhood  of 
Margus  thither,  enabled  them  to  give  an  air  of  Roman 
splendour  to  the  interior  of  their  rude  habitation. 

In  the  village  Theodore's  attendants  found  an  abode, 
while  he  himself,  once  more  in  the  midst  of  all  he  now 
loved  on  earth,  if  we  except  Ammian,  sat  down  to  the 
evening  meal,  and  listened  eagerly  to  the  details  of 
everything  that  had  occurred  to  Flavia  and  her  family 
since  he  parted  with  them  on  the  verge  of  the  barba- 
rian territory.  Their  journey  had  been  long  and  fati- 
guing, the  matron  said,  but  safe  and  uninterrupted,  and 
their  reception  among  the  simple  mountaineers  had 
been  kind  and  tender.  The  choice  of  a  dwelling  had 
been  left  to  themselves ;  and  though  the  capital  of  the 
tribe  was  situated  in  the  valley  of  the  Inn,  they  had 
fixed  upon  the  spot  where  they. now  were  for  their 


ATTILA.  215 

abode  as  one  less  subject  to  the  passage  of  strangers 
or  to  the  inroads  of  inimical  neighbours. 

The  most  important  part  of  the  tale,  however,  was  to 
come  :  scarcely  a  month  ere  Theodore  had  arrived,  am- 
bassadors from  Valentinian  had  presented  themselves  at 
the  court  of  the  King  of  the  Alani,  and  Flavia  and  her 
family  had  held  themselves  for  a  time  in  even  deeper 
retirement  than  before  ;  but,  to  their  surprise,  one  morn- 
ing the  envoys  appeared  at  their  dwelling  by  the  lake, 
and  the  Roman  lady  found,  with  no  slight  astonishment, 
that  Valentinian  was  already  aware  of  her  residence 
among  the  Alani.  The  mission  of  the  ambassadors  to 
the  barbarian  chief  was  one  of  small  import,  but  to  Fla- 
via they  bore  a  message  from  the  emperor  of  unwonted 
gentleness.  He  invited  her  to  fix  her  abode  in  the 
Western  empire  ;  promised  her  protection  against  all  her 
enemies,  and  full  justice  in  regard  to  all  her  claims  ;  nor 
could  she  doubt,  from  the  whole  tenour  of  his  message, 
that,  with  the  usual  enmity  of  rival  power,  even  when 
lodged  in  kindred  hands,  whoever  was  looked  upon  as 
an  enemy  by  Theodosius,  was  regarded  as  a  friend  by 
Valentinian.  Flavia,  however,  without  absolutely  re- 
fusing to  accept  the  fair  offers  of  the  emperor,  had  as- 
signed as  a  motive  for  delaying  to  reply,  that  she  ex- 
pected daily  to  receive  tidings  from  the  son  of  Pauli- 
nus. 

Theodore  mused  at  these  tidings  ;  but  Eudochia,  M'ho 
with  childless  thoughtlessness  looked  upon  all  that  hap- 
pened to  themselves  as  of  very  little  import  whenever 
it  was  over,  now  pressed  eagerly  to  hear  the  adventures 
of  her  brother  since  they  had  parted ;  and  Ildica  also, 
with  a  deeper  interest  than  common  curiosity,  looked 
up  in  his  face  with  eyes  that  seemed  to  say,  "  I  have 
waited  long,  beloved,  that  you  might  be  satisfied  first, 
but  oh,  make  me  a  sharer  now  in  all  that  has  occurred 
to  one  far  dearer  than  myself." 

Theodore  needed  no  entreaty,  but  began  his  story,  and 
with  minute  detail  related  all  that  had  occurred  to  him 
during  the  last  few  months.  Was  there  any  part  of  that 
history  which  he  did  not  tell,  any  of  the  events  that  had 
checkered  his  fate  which  he  omitted  in  his  narration  1 
There  were !  A  feehng  of  tenderness,  of  interest,  of 
gratitude,  kept  him  silent  upon  some  points  of  the  his- 
tory of  Bleda's  daughter.  He  spoke  of  Neva,  indeed ; 
he  told  how  she  had  nursed  him  in  sickness,  and  how 


216  ATTILA. 

sho  had  dclivored  liim  from  captivity ;  but  he  could  not, 
and  he  did  not  tell,  while  many  an  ear  was  hstening, 
that  she  had  bestowed  the  first  love  of  her  young  heart 
upon  one  who  could  not  return  it. 

Flavia  hearkened  to  the  tale,  and  at  that  part  of  it 
which  related  to  Bleda's  daughter  her  eyehds  fell  a 
little  over  her  eyes.  It  was  not  that  she  doubted  The- 
odore, for  there  was  a  simplicity  and  candour  in  all  he 
said  which  admitted  no  suspicion  ;  but  she  deemed  how  it 
was,  and  for  the  sake  of  the  poor  girl  she  was  grieved  that 
it  should  be  so.  lldica,  possessed  but  by  one  feeling,  sus- 
pected and  divined  nothing ;  her  only  comment  was,  as 
she  heard  of  his  danger  and  escape, "  Oh,  why  was  it  not 
I  to  whom  the  means  of  saving  you  were  given  ?" 

"Thank  God,  my  lldica,"  replied  Theodore,  "that 
you  were  far  from  such  scenes  and  such  dangers."  But, 
as  he  was  proceeding  to  conclude  his  tale,  there  were 
quick  steps  heard  without,  and  the  voice  of  Ammian 
singing  gayly  as  he  returned  successful  from  his  moun- 
tain sport. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

THE    INTERVAL    OP   HAPPINESS. 

Hitherto  we  have  given  nearly  a  connected  narra- 
tive ;  but  now  it  may  become  necessary  to  proceed 
sometimes  in  detached  scenes,  leaving  the  mind  of 
the  reader  to  fill  up  the  obvious  chain  of  intervening 
facts. 

Theodore  and  lldica  sat  alone  by  the  banks  of  the 
lake,  with  their  eyes  fixed  upon  the  rippling  waters 
that  came  whispering  up  nearly  to  their  feet ;  and  they 
gained,  without  knowing  it,  a  tone  of  calm  repose,  in 
the  midst  of  their  hearts'  thrilling  enjoyment,  from  the 
tranquillity  of  the  scene  around,  and  the  bright,  untroub- 
led softness  of  a  fine  autumn  day.  If,  when  they  met 
on  the  preceding  evening,  Theodore  had  been  moved 
by  joy,  such  as  his  heart  had  never  known  before,  Ildi- 
ca's  had  been  still  more  agitated,  for  delight  had  been 
carried  to  its  fullest  height  by  surprise.    Theodore  had 


ATTILA.  217 

come  thither  with  expectation  and  hope  as  the  harbin- 
gers of  gratification ;  but  to  Ildica,  the  joy  of  his  coming 
had  burst  suddenly  forth,  hke  the  iMay-day  sun  when 
he  scatters  the  clouds  of  morning  from  his  path. 
Neither,  however,  the  youth  nor  the  maiden  had  been 
able  to  pause,  and — if  I  may  use  so  strange  a  term — ■ 
enjoy  their  joy  during  the  first  evening  after  his  arrival. 
The  mind  of  each  had  been  full  of  whirling  images  of 
pleasure,  but  with  forms  scarcely  definite.  Now,  how- 
ever, as  they  sat  by  the  side  of  that  calm  lake,  amid 
those  glorious  mountains,  with  a  sky  clear,  but  not 
burning,  above  their  heads,  and  the  fresh  stillness  of  the 
early  morning  pervading  all  the  air,  the  solemn  tran- 
quillity of  the  scene  sunk  into  their  souls,  and  bade  their 
mutual  thoughts  flow  on  in  peace. 

The  history  of  all  external  events  which  had  befallen 
them  had  been  told,  it  is  true,  by  Flavia  and  Theodore, 
and  many  a  little  trait  had  been  added  by  Eudochia, 
Ammian,  and  Ildica  herself;  but  still  she  and  her  lover 
had  both  a  long  history  to  tell  of  thoughts  and  feelings, 
hopes  and  fears,  of  far  deeper  interest  to  each  other 
than  things  that  might  seem  of  greater  importance.  Il- 
dica towards  Theodore  had  no  thought  concealed.  No 
idle  fear  of  lessening  the  value  of  her  love  by  displaying 
it  put  an  unnatural  bar  upon  the  pure  feelings  of  her 
heart :  not  a  doubt  of  his  generous  construction  of  all 
that  she  said  fettered  her  words  or  embarrassed  the  ex- 
pression of  her  thoughts  ;  and  she  poured  forth,  without 
fear  or  hesitation,  the  tale  of  all  sliC  had  felt  since  she 
left  him  in  the  hands  of  the  Huns  ;  how  she  had  wept, 
and  how  she  had  feared ;  how  she  had  daily  looked  for 
some  tidings  from  him,  or  some  change  in  her  own 
fate ;  and  how  she  had  consoled  herself  with  the  re- 
membrance of  the  extraordinary  power  he  seemed  to 
have  obtained  over  the  barbarian  king. 

The  telling  of  that  tale,  now  that  the  dangers  were 
over  and  the  fears  gone  by,  was  in  itself  a  happiness ; 
and,  mingled  with  many  a  look  of  love  and  accent  of  af- 
fection, and  many  a  tender  caress,  Ildica's  narrative  of 
all  that  she  had  felt  proceeded,  till,  in  the  end,  she  had 
to  relate  how,  on  the  very  preceding  night,  while  sitting 
on  the  little  promontory  with  Eudochia,  and  her  mother, 
and  the  slaves,  there  had  been  something  in  the  situa- 
tion which — though  unlike  in  all  the  features  of  the 
landscape,  though  the  air  was  colder,  and  the  mountains 

Vol.  I.— T 


218  ATTILA. 

nearer,  and  the  sky  of  a  paler  liue — recalled  the  lovely 
Dalmatian  shore  to  her  mind ;  and  how  in  the  magic 
glass  of  memory  had  risen  up  the  mound  of  cypresses^ 
and  the  bay  of  Salona,  and  the  glorious  sunset,  and  all 
the  objects  and  all  the  feelings  of  that  well-remembered 
evening  when  her  lover  had  last  returned  from  the  city 
of  the  emperors  ;  and  how,  at  those  thoughts,  the  unbid-= 
den  tears  were  rising  even  to  overflowing  in  her  eyes, 
when  she  saw  a  horseman  suddenly  gallop  up  the  hill, 
and  wild  hopes  and  joyful  presentiments  had  rushed 
through  her  heart,  and  taken  from  her  all  powef  of 
speech  or  motion,  till  she  was  once  more  clasped  in  his 
arms. 

Theodore,  too,  had  his  tale  to  tell ;  and  now,  to  the 
ear  of  her  he  loved,  it  was  not  less  full  or  less  candid 
than  her  own  had  been.  He  gave  her  a  picture  of  all 
his  thoughts  in  every  situation  through  which  he  had 
passed,  and  her  own  unconscious  questions  soon  brought 
the  narrative  towards  Neva.  But  Theodore  felt  that  he 
could  trust  in  Ildica,  and  he  told  her  all ;  and,  with  his 
arm  circling  her  waist,  he  pressed  her  more  tenderly, 
more  closely  to  his  bosom  while  he  spoke  of  the  love 
of  another,  as  if  he  sought  thereby  to  express  how  much 
more  dear  she  had  become  to  his  heart  under  every 
change  and  every  circumstance. 

Neither  did  he  do  the  daughter  of  the  barbarian  chief 
the  injustice  of  breathing  the  tale  of  her  unhappy  love^ 
without  adding  every  pure  and  noble  trait  which  had 
shone  out  in  her  conduct ;  and  Ildica,  who  had  hstened 
with  a  beating  heart  but  not  a  doubting  mind,  pressed 
her  eyes,  in  which  were  some  tears,  upon  Theodore's 
bosom,  saying,  "Poor  girl,  I  am  sorry  for  her!  I  won- 
der not  at  her  loving  you,  Theodore.  It  is  but  too  nat- 
ural she  should ;  and  oh,  I  am  sure  that  her  love  for 
one  so  much  above  any  being  that  she  ever  saw  before 
will  last,  unhappily  for  herself,  through  all  her  life. 
She  will  compare  every  one  with  you,  and  every  one 
will  fall  short.  I  am  sorry  for  her,  beloved;  and  yet^ 
Theodore,  yet  I  could  not  share  your  love  with  any 
one;  I  could  not  part  with  the  smallest  portion  of  that 
treasure  for  a  world.  See  how  selfish  and  miserly  I 
have  become !" 

"  None  can  ever  take  the  slightest  portion  from  thee, 
my  Ildica,"  replied  Theodore ;  "  from  infancy  to  death 
there  shall  be  but  one  image  which  shall  fill  my  heart. 


ATTILA.  219 

But  to  do  poor  Neva  justice,  she  seeks  not  to  rob  my 
lldica  of  that  which  is  Ildica's  own.  She  would  not 
share  in  a  heart  that  is  given  to  another,  lldica,  even  if 
she  could ;  and  as,  from  all  that  has  passed  from  her 
father's  hatred  towards  me,  and  the  injuries  he  has 
done  me,  it  is  impossible  that  Neva  and  I  should  ever 
meet  again,  I  trust  that  she  will  forget  feelings  which 
were  suddenly  raised,  checked  almost  in  their  birth,  and 
have  no  food  on  which  to  feed  and  prolong  their  exist- 
ence— I  trust  she  will  forget — "' 

"Never,  Theodore!  never!"  cried  lldica;  "such 
feelings  are  not  to  be  forgotten.  She  will  see  none 
like  you  ;  but,  even  if  she  did,  she  would  fancy  none 
she  saw  your  equal.  The  memory  of  having  saved  you 
from  death,  too,  will  perpetuate  her  love — ay,  the  mem- 
ory of  that  action,  and  the  memory  of  her  love,  will  go 
down  together  with  her  to  the  tomb,  embalming  and 
preserving  each  other." 

"  I  trust  not,  my  lldica,  I  trust  not,"  he  replied. 

"  Oh,  Theodore,"  she  answered,  "were  I  absent  from 
you  for  long  years,  separated  from  you  even  by  impass- 
able barriers,  would  you  love  me  less  ?  could  you  for- 
get our  love  V 

"  No,  certainly  not,"  replied  Theodore  ;  "  but  our 
love  is  mutual  and  full  of  mutual  hopes.  Her  love  is 
hopeless  and  unreturned ;  and  1  trust  she  will  forget 
it." 

"  Such  may  be  the  case  with  man,"  answered  lldica. 
"  Hopeless  and  unreturned,  his  love  may,  perhaps,  seek 
another  object.  Woman  loves  but  once,  and  never  for- 
gets, my  Theodore.  My  heart  tells  it  me  even  now  ; 
and  though  in  such  things  I  have,  of  course,  but  little 
skill,  yet  I  feel  and  know  that  time,  absence,  despair  it- 
self, could  never  make  me  forget  my  love  for  thee. 
The  time  must  come  when  remembrance  shall  be  ex- 
tinguished in  the  grave,  and  the  fine  lines  traced  by  the 
diamond  style  of  love  on  the  tablets  of  the  spirit  may 
be  hidden  for  a  while  beneath  the  dust  of  the  tomb  ; 
but  to  that  cold  dwelling-house  shall  the  unfaded  recol- 
lection go  down  with  me  ;  and  when  I  waken  again 
from  the  sleep  of  death,  the  memory  of  my  love  shall 
waken  with  me — I  feel — I  kno"w  it  will ;"  and,  as  she 
spoke,  she  raised  her  eyes  to  heaven,  while  the  rays  of 
the  morning  light  danced  in  their  liquid  lustre,  as  if  they, 
too,  were  of  kindred  with  the  sky. 


220  ATTILA. 

Theodore  pressed  her  to  his  heart,  and  long  and 
sweet  was  the  communion  that  followed  ;  but  we  can- 
not, we  will  not  further  dwell  upon  things  that  those 
Avho  have  loved  truly  will  understand  without  our  tel- 
ling, and  that  those  who  have  never  so  loved  cannot 
comprehend  at  all.  Let  them  be  sacred  !  those  holy 
feelings  of  the  pure  and  high-toned  heart  ;  those  sweet, 
ennobling  emotions  of  the  unpolluted  soul.  Let  them 
be  sacred  !  those  sensations,  intense  yet  timid,  pure 
and  unalloyable  as  the  diamond,  as  firm,  as  bright,  as 
unspotted ;  but  which,  like  a  precious  jewel  that  baser 
minds  would  ever  fain  take  from  us,  are  wisely  con- 
cealed by  those  who  possess  them  from  the  gaze  of  the 
low  and  the  unfeeling.  We  seek  not  to  display — we 
would  not  if  we  could — all  the  finer  shades,  the  tenderer 
emotions,  of  the  love  of  Theodore  and  Ildica.  We 
have  raised  the  veil  enough  to  show  how  they  did  love, 
and  we  will  raise  it  no  further. 

The  days  of  his  stay  passed  in  visions  of  happiness 
to  Ildica  and  himself,  a  long,  dreamy  lapse  of  exquisite 
delight.  Beyond  each  other,  and  the  few  dear  beings 
around  them,  what  was  the  world  to  them  1  The  lim- 
its of  that  valley  were  the  limits  of  their  thoughts  ;  and, 
whether  they  sailed  on  the  bosom  of  the  lake,  or  climbed 
the  giant  mountains  round  about,  or  wandered  through 
the  rustling  woods,  or  sat  upon  the  shore  and  watched 
the  tiny  billows  of  that  miniature  sea,  the  thoughts  of 
the  two  lovers  were  only  of  each  other,  though  the 
lovely  scene,  mountain,  and  stream,  and  woods,  and 
lakes,  and  meadows,  mingled  insensibly  with  their  own 
dream  of  happiness,  heightened  the  colouring  of  their 
hopes,  and,  in  return,  received  a  brighter  hue  itself. 
Sweet,  oh,  how  sweet !  were  the  hours,  and  yet  how 
rapidly  they  flew;  till  at  length,  when  they  rose  one 
morning  and  gazed  forth,  a  wreath  of  snow  was  seen 
hanging  upon  the  peaks  of  the  mountains — not  alone 
upon  those  higher  summits,  on  whose  everlasting  ice 
the  summer  sun  shone  vainly  through  his  longest, 
brightest  hours,  but  on  those  lower  hills  which  the  day 
before  had  risen  up  in  the  brown  veil  of  the  autumnal  for- 
est, or  the  green  covering  of  grass,  or  the  gray  naked- 
ness of  the  native  stone.  It  was  the  signal  for  Theo- 
dore to  depart;  and  then  came  the  hours,  ere  he  set 
out,  of  melancholy  and  of  gloom. 

Those  hours,  however,  were  broken  by  many  a  long 


ATTILA.  221 

and  anxious  consultation.  The  offered  hospitality  and 
protection  of  Valentinian  had  yet  to  be  considered,  for 
it  was  a  proposal  which,  if  even  not  accepted  at  once, 
both  Theodore  and  Flavia  judged  might  prove  of  great 
utihty  at  an  after  period.  No  one  could  tell  either 
what  changes  might  take  place  in  the  positions  of  the 
barbarian  nations,  or  what  might  be  the  final  result  of  the 
victories  and  successes  of  Attila  himself  Where  he 
might  next  turn  his  arms  was  a  question  which  none 
even  of  his  own  court  could  solve ;  and  while  it  was  ev- 
ident to  all  that  a  victorious  and  devastating  excursion 
against  the  Eastern  empire  was  by  no  means  the  ulte- 
rior purpose  of  his  powerful  and  ambitious  mind,  yet 
no  one  could  divine  what  was  the  end  proposed,  or 
whither  the  pursuit  might  lead.  Under  these  circum- 
stances, to  have  a  place  of  refuge  open  against  the 
storm  of  war  was  always  a  blessing;  and  Theodore 
strongly  counselled  Flavia  to  despatch  messengers  to 
the  emperor,  charged  with  thanks,  and  such  presents 
as  circumstances  permitted  her  to  send;  not  exactly 
accepting  the  offer  of  asylum  he  had  made,  but  expres- 
sing a  purpose  of  taking  advantage  thereof  at  no  very 
distant  period. 

"  Were  you  to  go  thither  even  next  year,"  Theodore 
observed,  while  speaking  on  the  subject  with  Flavia 
alone,  "  Ammian  would  be  some  protection  to  you  all ; 
for  I  remark  that  his  bold  spirit  and  his  mountain  sports 
are  every  day  giving  greater  vigour  to  his  limbs,  and 
his  frame  is  towering  up  towards  manhood.  A  year 
will  do  much  in  such  pastimes  as  these,  while  the  free 
and  wild  simplicit}'-  of  the  barbarian  habits  will  secure 
him  against  the  weak  and  effeminate  manners  of 
Rome  ;  and,  at  the  same  time,  it  were  but  right  and  ne- 
cessary that  both  he  and  Eudochia  should  receive  that 
civilized  education  which  can  be  obtained  nowhere  but 
in  the  empire." 

"Alas  !  my  son,"  replied  Flavia,  "I  fear  that  it  will 
be  long  ere  Ammian  can  give  us  that  protection  which 
thou  mightst  do ;  for,  though  courageous  to  a  fault, 
and  resolute,  yet  there  is  a  wild  and  heedless  spirit  in 
his  breast  which  often  prevents  his  nobler  qualities 
from  acting  as  they  might.  His  heart  is  kind  and  gen- 
erous, his  mind  upright  and  noble ;  but  in  the  exuber- 
ance of  his  youthful  daring,  and  the  wanderings  of  a 
wild  imagination,  he  forgets  too  often,  Theodore,  that 

T2 


222  ATTILA. 

tliere  is  such  a  thing  as  danger  to  liimsclf  or  others, 
lie  wants  prndonce,  he  wants  consideration,  lie  wants 
that  calm  presence  of  mind  which  sees  under  all  cir- 
cumstances that  which  is  best  to  do,  and  is  ever  ready 
to  do  it." 

"  But,  my  mother,  he  is  yet  but  a  boy,"  replied  Theo- 
dore :  "  time  will  give  prudence,  experience  will  give 
judgment,  and  age  will  tame  quickly  the  wildest  and 
most  wandering  fancy.  At  all  events,  I  only  desire 
that  you  should  have  a  refuge  prepared.  Doubtless — 
both  because  this  mighty  barbarian  does  really,  I  be- 
lieve, regard  me  with  affection,  and  because  he  has 
been  taught  to  imagine  that  there  is  some  mysterious 
connexion  between  his  fate  and  mine — doubtless,  I 
say,  he  will  allow  me  from  time  to  time  to  renew  the 
visit  he  has  now  permitted;  at  all  events,  I  will  find 
means  to  send,  both  to  give  you  my  tidings  and  to  gain 
news  from  you.  If  there  be  danger,  1  will  let  you 
know,  and  be  ready  ever,  upon  but  a  short  warning,  to 
fly  to  the  court  of  Valentinian.  As  I  go  hence,  I  shall 
visit  the  capital  of  the  Alani  by  the  banks  of  the  Inn ; 
for  the  kindred  that  I  have  among  them  might  think  it 
strange  and  wrong  were  I  to  pass  through  the  land 
without  seeing  them  ;  and,  when  there,  of  course  I  will 
do  all  I  can  to  ensure  that  the  refuge  which  you  have 
here  received  sliall  be  as  safe,  as  peaceful,  and  as  happy 
as  it  can  be  made.  There  is  much  in  the  ties  of  blood, 
even  between  a  Roman  and  barbarian,  and  1  think  that 
my  requests  will  find  favour  among  the  Alani." 

Theodore  would  fain  have  lingered  and  protracted  the 
hours ;  for  although  he  knew  that  he  soon  must  go,  and 
the  thought  of  parting  sadly  imbittered  even  the  present, 
yet  around  Ildica  there  was  to  him  an  atmosphere  of 
light  and  happiness,  which  banished  all  that  was  dark 
and  gloomy  from  his  heart.  But  he  had  made  a  promise 
to  Attila,  and  with  Theodore  a  promise  was  inviolable. 
Ildica,  too,  would  fain  have  detained  him,  would  have 
fain  drank  slowly  out  the  last  sweet  drops  of  the  cup 
of  happiness  which  had  been  offered  to  her  lip :  they 
were  but  the  dregs,  it  is  true,  and  bitter  was  mixed  with 
them,  but  yet  the  taste  of  joy  remained;  and  if  she 
could  not  have  it  pure  and  unalloyed,  she  yet  lingered 
over  the  last  portion,  however  sadly  mingled.  But 
Theodore  had  given  a  promise ;  and  Theodore's  un- 
stained integrity  and  unvarying  truth  were  as  dear  to 


AtflLA.  223 

lldica  as  to  himself— were  dearer,  far  dearer,  than  any 
personal  enjoyment.  She  would  not  have  him  forfeit 
his  word  to  Attila,  in  order  to  remain  with  her,  for  all 
that  the  world  could  give  ;  and  she  herself  bade  him  go 
Whenever  she  learned  that  he  had  barely  time  to  accom- 
plish his  journey  by  the  path  that  it  was  necessary  for 
him  to  follow.  They  parted — not  now,  however,  as 
when  last  they  parted ;  for  then  before  them  had  stretch- 
ed out  nothing  but  one  vague  and  indefinite  expanse — 
the  gray  cloud  of  the  future !  on  which  even  the  eye 
of  fancy  could  scarcely  trace  one  likely  form,  through 
which  the  star  of  hope  shqne  faint  and  powerless. 
Now,  after  all  those  fearful  scenes  and  that  dreadful 
Separation-^scenes  and  circumstances  which  had  be- 
numbed their  feelings,  and,  like  some  crashing  wound, 
which  by  its  very  severity  deprives  the  sufferer  of  his 
sense  of  pain,  had  left  them  bewildered  and  almost 
unconscious,  till  time  had  shown  them  the  deprivation 
they  had  undergone.  Now  they  had  met  again;  hopes 
that  they  had  scarcely  dared  to  entertain  had  been  re- 
alized ere  the  heart  grew  weary  with  delay.  They 
had  known  a  longer  and  more  tranquil  period  of  hap- 
piness than  they  had  ever  tasted  since  first  the  mutual 
love  of  their  young  hearts  had  been  spoken  to  each 
other ;  and  hope,  the  sweet  sophist,  skilful  m  turning 
to  her  purpose  all  things  that  befall,  drew  arguments 
from  past  joy  in  order  to  prove  her  promises  for  the 
future  true. 

They  parted  then :  lldica  declared  that  she  wished 
him  to  go,  and  Theodore  strengthened  himself  in  the 
remembrance  of  his  promise.  Yet,  nevertheless,  let 
no  one  think  that  their  parting  was  not  bitter :  Theo- 
dore struggled  even  against  a  sigh  ;  and  over  the  cheeks 
of  lldica  rolled  no  tear,  though  on  the  dark  long  lashes 
that  fringed  her  eyelids  would  sparkle  like  a  crushed 
diamond  the  irrepressible  dew  of  grief.  Yet,  neverthe- 
less, let  no  one  think  the  parting  is  ever  less  than  bitter, 
when,  even  in  the  brightest  day  of  youth,  two  hearts 
United  by  the  great  master  bond  which  God  assigned  to 
man  to  bind  him  in  the  grievous  pilgrimage  of  life  to  one 
chosen  from  all  his  kind,  are  separated  from  one  an- 
other for  long  indefinite  hours,  with  lonehness  of  feeling 
and  the  dim  uncertainty  of  human  fate  hanging  over 
them  hke  a  dark  cloud.  Who  shall  say,  when  thus 
they  part,  that  they  shall  ever  meet  again  ?    Who  shall 


ii24  ATTILA. 

say  with  what  dark  barrier  the  mighty  hand  of  destiny 
may  not  close  the  way  ?  whether  death,  or  misfortune, 
or  interminable  diflicuity  may  not  cut  short  hope  or 
weary  out  the  spirit  in  the  bondage  of  circumstance, 
till  expectation  is  vain  of  reunion  on  this  side  the 
tomb  ? 

Tiiey  parted  firmly :  but  such  partings  are  ever  bitter  ; 
and  when  Theodore  was  gone,  Ildica  wept  for  long 
hours  in  silence  ;  while  he,  as  he  rode  on,  beheld  nothing 
of  all  that  surrounded  him  ;  for  the  soul  was  then  in  the 
secret  chamber  of  the  heart,  communing  sternly  with 
lier  own  grief. 


END    OF    VOL.  I. 


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